At Sea
by Megan Lo Saurus
Summary: This is a fic that I've taken over from Tinderbox Lily, who didn't want to finish it - thanks! Its FrUK, a pirate AU where Francis is the pirate and Arthur his prisoner.
1. Chapter 1

So this is a story that I took over from a user called 'Lemon Nightmare' (thank you! :D) So the first… Five chapters belong to her, and the rest is on me, with a lot of help hopefully :) Anyways, hope the continuation lives up to the beginning!

* * *

><p>They had been sailing for days now. The seas had been calm, the winds fair, and so far they'd only met with a mild storm that had left the <em>Mary Rose<em> battered but intact.

It was Arthur's first time at sea, and while he had quickly adapted, he still hadn't overcome his sense of wonder at this completely unfamiliar world.

He was fascinated by it all; the swish and thud of the waves against the ship's hull, the salty tang of the wind on his skin. And most of all, the emptiness of this unending turquoise ocean, blurred into azure at the horizon.

As the ship's carpenter, Arthur was well respected and left to himself as he had asked. After all, the crew's lives did depend on how well he did his job. Still, as much as he wanted to visit the New World, there were times when he wondered about his decision to spend long weeks on a ship with a group of drunk Dutchmen.

And then there were those few moments that made it worth it - moments such as this one.

It was evening, and most of the crew were in the galley; eating, laughing, and generally getting as drunk as possible on the cheap rum they seemed to have copious quantities of. Only Arthur had chosen to remain on deck.

This meant that Arthur was left relatively undisturbed. He leaned over the side of the ship, hypnotised by the foamed sea. For a while the sound of the wind and the waves drowned out the sounds issuing from the galley.

Arthur glanced at his pocket watch, and saw that he still had a little while longer to himself. Closing the watch carefully, he looked back out across the waves.

A faint shape loomed through the dark, and Arthur squinted, trying to make out what it was.

It was another ship, slightly smaller than their own - a sloop. She was moving much faster than the _Mary Rose_ could, which was a ship designed for long journeys rather than the fast pace of battle.

Probably pirates, Arthur guessed. The question was, what should he do? It would be a waste of his time telling his fellow shipmates. They would probably laugh it off, drunken idiots that they were. Even if he was wrong about them, it wasn't as if there was much they could do about it. No matter how well they fought, they would inevitably be defeated.

He sighed. If there was one thing Arthur had always believed in, it was that he would go down fighting, or not go down at all. Maybe these Dutch fools would have some of that same spirit? It was worth a shot.

He turned and padded back across the deck to the galley.

* * *

><p>Francis examined the ship they were drawing close to. It was a carrack, slower than his own ship and, judging from the sounds of drunken uproar carried by the wind, the crew were in no position to fight.<p>

He nodded to his quartermaster, Antonio.

It was time for battle.


	2. Chapter 2

They hadn't stood a ghost of a chance.

When Arthur had warned the other sailors, they'd just laughed him off. They'd kept drinking right up until the moment the pirates had arrived and surrounded them in a wicked ring of swords and pistols.

Now, they were standing on the deck of the small sloop, having been forced to unload most of their precious cargo onto the pirate ship.

The pirates surrounding them were smirking and congratulating each other. To be honest, Arthur thought resentfully, it was really rather pathetic considering how much fighting they'd actually had to do.

Then a voice barked an order in French, and they were silent.

A tall man stepped forwards to address the captives - presumably the captain from the way the others respectfully moved out of the way - and Arthur tried hard not to stare.

He had cobalt blue eyes, and his blond hair was tied loosely against the wind. His attire should have looked ridiculous - he was wearing a long, dark brown coat that hung open to reveal a loose white shirt, open at the neck.

Arthur tore his gaze away from the caramel skin the open shirt revealed, and focussed instead on the arsenal of weapons that hung from his belt.

_"Merci_ for handing over your cargo so willingly," the captain smirked, French accent heavy on each word.

Arthur glared at him. "You sure are smug for someone who only defeated a crew of inebriated idiots. Is this your first victory or something?"

A taut silence met his words. All eyes swiveled to the captain to gauge his reaction.

The captain sauntered towards him, and Arthur could see himself walking the plank in a matter of seconds. But he lifted his chin proudly and met the other's narrowed blue eyes. After several long seconds, the captain laughed. "What's your name, boy?"

"I'm not a boy, I'm twenty-one." Arthur said irritably, knowing how petty his words sounded. He was just fed up of being patronised - after all, if those _idiots_ had listened to him earlier, they wouldn't even be in this mess. "And why should I tell you my name?"

"Very well. My name is Francis Bonnefoy, legendary French pirate. You have heard of me, _non?"_

He had, but Arthur wasn't about to boost this idiot's ego. "Never. Why should I concern myself with a French bastard?"

"You wound me, _mon cher."_

Arthur's face flushed. He only knew a little French, but it was enough to understand what that meant, and he was nobody's darling. "Kirkland. My name is Arthur Kirkland," he snapped, realising straight afterwards how easily he'd been tricked into giving his name.

Bonnefoy smirked again. Then he turned abruptly. _"Antoine!"_

One of the pirates looked up. _"Ouais?"_

_"Retournes les prisonniers à leurs navire. Sauf celui-ci - il m'interesse."_

_"Bien sûr, capitaine." *_

Arthur glared at them and wished he could understand what they were saying.

The pirate called Antoine rattled off a series of commands in rapid French, and the rest of the pirates hurried to do his bidding. Arthur's shipmates were quickly herded into several tiny boats and rowed back to the _Mary Rose._

Leaving Arthur standing alone on the deck of the sloop.

He caught sight of Bonnefoy standing alone on the bowsprit, and marched up to him. "Hey, you French bastard! Why can't I go back to my ship?"

'Sorry,_ mon cher,_ but you are much too interesting to set free."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur replied furiously.

Bonnefoy looked him up and down and leered.

Arthur felt a fresh wave of anger curl in his belly. He clenched his fists to stop himself from punching the grin off that damn pirate's face.

Bonnefoy didn't seem to care - if anything, he looked almost pleased by Arthur's reaction. He smiled in satisfaction, and said the four words that would change Arthur's life.

"Welcome aboard the _Achéron…"_

* * *

><p>*Translations and note by Lemon Nightmare:<p>

'Ouais' - Yeah

'Retournes les prisonniers à leurs navire. Sauf celui-ci - il m'interesse.' - Return the prisoners to their ship. Except this one - he interests me.

'Bien sûr, capitaine' - Certainly, captain

_Achéron_ is the (frenchified) name of a river which is mythologically connected to the Styx, the river to the Underworld. Hence choosing it as the name of a pirate ship :)


	3. Chapter 3

Francis looked at the man seething in fury in front of him.

He really was most interesting, he thought. Most of the people Francis captured were much too scared to stand up to him, or even say anything at all, yet this Kirkland was entirely unafraid.

"Did you hear me? Because I absolutely will." Those green eyes blazed fiercely, and Francis could see pure determination burning within.

He snapped out of his train of thoughts. "Will what, _mon cher?"_

Kirkland glowered at him. "Either you let me go, or so help me I will kill you in your sleep."

Francis laughed. It had been so long since anyone spoke to him like this; it was exhilarating. "You can try. I sleep lightly, and armed. When you fail, maybe I will let you off my ship. Or maybe I'll allow you a less painful death..." He said musingly.

Alarm flickered briefly across Kirkland's face, but it was barely perceptible before his expression became blank again. He stepped closer to Francis so that they were inches apart, and looked at him evenly. "You'll be dead before you can shout for help."

Francis was about to respond when he saw Kirkland's lips quirk in a tiny smile of triumph. That tiny rustling he'd heard - Francis had presumed it was the wind. But what if…?

He quickly caught Kirkland's wrist. In his hand was one of Francis' daggers. Kirkland matched his gaze unrepentantly, and Francis felt a thrill of excitement.

He pinned Kirkland against the side of the ship, holding his wrists so that he couldn't fight back. "Considering the situation, _mon cher,_ that was a rash move. After all, I am a pirate."

Kirkland tried to shift away, but Francis just leaned closer. Their faces were scant inches apart.

The wind blew Kirkland's sandy hair into his eyes, and the smaller man blinked in irritation.

"I can have you killed in a heartbeat," Francis murmured, reaching up to brush back Kirkland's windswept hair, the movement so gentle it was almost a caress. His hand hovered at his captive's cheek.

He felt Kirkland shiver slightly, yet those green eyes still looked back at him undaunted.

And at that moment, he realised there was no way he could ever hurt this man.

* * *

><p>When Bonnefoy stepped back, Arthur let out a shaky breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.<p>

There was something about the pirate, something that had Arthur completely captivated. Even if he had successfully stolen the dagger, would he have been able to kill Bonnefoy?

He shook his head to clear himself of the thought.

Bonnefoy looked at him steadily, then held out the dagger.

Arthur stared at it in surprise.

"You can have the knife."

"Why?"

Bonnefoy grinned, baring white teeth.

"Because, _mon cher,_ how else do you plan on killing me? We have just seen that I am stronger than you. Even with this blade, I doubt you will be able to attack successfully."

Arthur scowled but couldn't argue. When the French bastard had pinned him just now, he'd been unable to escape the other's firm grip - and considering how gentle Francis' hands had been, that almost certainly wasn't even his full strength.

He took the dagger and shoved it in his pocket. He wasn't going to humiliate himself by attacking right now, when the pirate was ready and waiting.

But tonight, he would take his chance.

Tonight, he would prove Bonnefoy wrong.

* * *

><p>Arthur turned the handle as silently as he could and slipped in, treading lightly and skirting close to the walls where the floorboards would be less likely to creak.<p>

Bonnefoy was still snoring softly when he reached the bed - Arthur hadn't made much noise, and of course being a pirate he was used to sleeping through the wind and waves.

He paused, looking down at Bonnefoy. A surge of unexpected emotion welled up inside of him.

When he was asleep, and that ever-present smirk was no longer there, Bonnefoy almost looked -

Arthur shook his head firmly, refusing to let his thoughts continue along that track. He reached into his pocket and took out the dagger. The moonlight glanced wickedly off its blade as he raised it and…

And hesitated.

He didn't want to kill Bonnefoy.

Besides, if he murdered Bonnefoy now, it would be dishonourable. Even if this was a pirate, a villain who didn't deserve his clemency - attacking a man in his sleep was low. Arthur wasn't going to sink to their level.

The pirate's eyes flew open.

_Shit._

Before he could react, Bonnefoy yanked Arthur fiercely towards him, causing him to stumble and fall onto the bed. The pirate whirled round and pushed him down, sitting on Arthur's hips before he could do much more than raise his dagger.

They were at a stalemate - the tip of Bonnefoy's knife was pressed to Arthur's throat, but Arthur's blade rested over the pirate's heart.

Bonnefoy smirked. "Very good, _mon cher._ Just a little faster, and you would have been free."

Arthur scowled, berating himself for his hesitation. He lowered the dagger. "Fine. You win. Do what you will. But I won't die on this ship - I'll walk the plank, or whatever you pirates do."

Bonnefoy reached behind Arthur and returned his own knife to its hiding place beneath the pillow.

Bonnefoy looked at him, blue eyes predatory. "And if I choose to keep you?" He purred. He leant forwards, teeth gently teasing Arthur's ear.

Arthur swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "I'd kill myself before becoming your toy," he spat.

"You'll take back those words soon enough," Bonnefoy replied, and he kissed Arthur's neck softly. Arthur bit his lip hard to hold back a moan, and the pain brought him to his senses.

"No, I never will. Now let go of me!" He snarled.

Bonnefoy smiled and stood gracefully, holding out a hand to Arthur. He ignored the gesture and got up on his own.

"On that other ship, the _Mary Rose_. What was your position?"

"Carpenter."

_"D'accord._ What experience do you have?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Bonnefoy smirked. "Then I'm guessing none? I knew you weren't twenty-one." He tutted. "You shouldn't lie, _mon cher."_

Arthur sighed inwardly. There really was no point arguing with this man. "I worked as a shipbuilder and repairer at a port back in London. But this is my first time at sea."

Bonnefoy laughed. "First time, and you already ran into pirates? _Mon cher,_ you have bad luck."

Arthur glared at him balefully.

_"Alors. _We have need of a skilled carpenter on board - unfortunately, it is more important that we have a carpenter than that I have a pet."

"And if I don't want to help you?"

Bonnefoy shrugged. "So far, the assistant carpenter has been coping pretty well with repairs. But in any case, I won't let you escape, _mon cher. _You are very… Intriguing. It would be a waste if you were to die."

For a moment, Arthur could only stare at Bonnefoy in horror, those few words reverberating through him with terrible finality. _I won't let you escape._

There was no way out.

Arthur's anger flared up, pouring words out of him in a torrent of fury. "You can keep me alive. But you can't make me do anything more, and I absolutely refuse to help you or your shipmates in any way. If your ship is damaged and the assistant carpenter can't fix it, I won't help, even if it means I go down with you."

Bonnefoy grinned. "Good night, _mon cher."_

Arthur didn't reply. Furious, he turned and stalked out.

* * *

><p>Francis lay back, resting his head on his arms.<p>

He was torn between triumph and regret. On the one hand, Kirkland was to stay on the _Achéron_ indefinitely, but on the other, he was almost sure that he had permanently lost what little goodwill Arthur may have borne him.

He thought back over the past few minutes.

Kirkland had been more skilled than he'd expected. He wasn't as strong as Francis, but he was quiet, and Francis knew that his waking when he had was more down to his good fortune than a mistake on Kirkland's part.

If Kirkland tried again, he might not be so lucky.

Francis sighed.

He would chance it. He was worried that if he took away too much of Kirkland's freedom, he'd become like all the others - respecting him, never challenging his authority. Which, as captain, was necessary, but so frustrating sometimes.

True, he'd always have Antonio. They'd been friends since the Spaniard arrived in France as a young boy, and Antonio knew him better than almost anyone. Francis trusted him and was trusted by him. But there was something about Kirkland…

Francis closed his eyes and concentrated on the soothing motion of the ship. He'd worry about this later.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur carefully wound his old pocket watch, gently turning the stem until he felt the slight resistance that signified it was set.

"What are you doing, _mon cher?"_ A voice murmured in Arthur's ear, and he whirled around to see Bonnefoy standing _much too close._

"Nothing," he said quickly, shoving the watch back into his pocket before Bonnefoy could see it clearly. The pirate noticed him hide it, and a smug expression came across his face. Arthur was sure that look would spell trouble for him.

But all Bonnefoy said was, "_D'accord._ In that case, swab the deck."

Arthur was about to complain, but he bit back his refusal. Maybe if he was obedient, Bonnefoy would stop asking questions that he didn't want to answer. And either way, it wasn't as if Bonnefoy could continue to bother him when he was doing as the pirate wanted.

"Fine." He said shortly, and stomped off.

Not content with this, Bonnefoy followed Arthur, disbelief written across his face. "Fine? That's it? You're so obedient, _mon cher._ Whatever happened to that fiery defiance from yesterday?"

"No matter what I want to believe, I'm still your prisoner," Arthur said. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Bonnefoy looked slightly crestfallen, and Arthur had to wonder why. After all, isn't that what he had wanted to hear?

It didn't matter either way. Moments later, Bonnefoy was called away, and Arthur was left blissfully alone.

Not for long.

Arthur had been left in peace for not more than five minutes, when something barreled into him at high speed. Further inspection revealed that it was a who, rather than a what - a man with silver-white hair and deep red eyes.

"What're you gawkin' at?" He snarled. Arthur stared at him blankly, and the stranger swore colourfully before switching to halting French. "Quand la... femme -"

"I'm not French," Arthur interrupted, and the stranger's face cleared in relief.

"And ya couldn't've told me earlier? Ah, I guess it don't matter. When that fuckin' creepy lady gets here you ain't seen the awesome me, savvy?"

Arthur nodded. Before he could ask anything more, the man rushed over to the side of the ship and threw himself off.

He was about to call for help, but then Arthur was struck by the awful realisation that such desperate measures clearly meant whatever was coming for that man was worse than death. He shivered, and hurriedly picked up the mop again to try and take his mind off what was coming.

Seconds later, a petite brunette woman stomped up to Arthur, a heavy saucepan in her hand and and an expression of incredible fury on her face.

_"Où est-il?"_ She demanded.

Arthur swallowed back his fear and managed to speak steadily. "I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am. I haven't seen anyone."

The woman looked at him narrowly. She let out a stream of rapid French (none of which Arthur understood) before raising the saucepan threateningly in a gesture that needed no translation. Then she turned and marched off.

When she was out of sight, Arthur let out a sigh of relief and hurried over to see what had happened to the stranger.

He looked over the side of the ship and was met by a pair of anxious red eyes. The stranger was clinging to the outside of the ship - if he let go, he'd fall into the sea. Arthur wasn't sure whether to be impressed at the skill or concerned at the idiocy this involved. In the end, he simply said, "She's gone," and reached out to help the man up.

The man grinned roguishly and swung himself back up over the side of the ship, landing with a light thump beside Arthur.

"Guess I owe ya one. I'm Gil, master thief and general all-round awesome person." He stuck out his hand and they shook.

"Arthur. Why was that woman trying to kill you?"

"Who, Lizbet? Oh, she's just angry 'cause I was watchin' her changin'. Remind me it ain't worth it. Scary lady, she is." Gil shuddered. "So, whatcha doin' on this ship?"

Arthur scowled. "That bastard Bonnefoy is keeping me here for some reason. How about you?"

Gil grinned. "I'm a stowaway," he announced proudly. "Thought it'd be a good idea to sneak onto a pirate ship, 'cause they got the most to steal. Got careless, got caught. But then that Bonfoy guy says I can stay, 'cause they might need someone like me. Pretty awesome dude, he is. It's a good life, 'cept none of these mugs know English and I don't speak French."

"Yeah, my French is pretty limited too." Arthur agreed. "Would you mind showing me around? I'm pretty much done with this," he gestured to the mop.

"Least I can do, Artie. I been on the Ashron a while so I know her pretty well. Follow me."

"Thanks," Arthur said gratefully, choosing to ignore the nickname.

Gil nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>In the end, Gil's supposed-to-be-awesome tour ended rather abruptly, because Gil immediately made a beeline for the galley.<p>

"This, Artie, is Luddy." Gil said, throwing one arm around a clean-shaven, muscular blond, whose light blue eyes were glaring at Gil in a way that clearly stated, 'If you do not get off me _this instant,_ I will end you in the most painful way possible.'

Gil was unfazed by this, and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Luddy's the cook round here, which is why he's got that hardcore apron. And he's my cute lil bro in all but blood. He's German, like me, but I been teaching him English, and he's pretty good now."

"My name is Ludwig," he said stiffly, continuing to glower at Gil. "How do you do."

"Arthur. Very well thanks, and you?"

Gil sneezed explosively. "Can ya get me a drink, Luddy? Formalities are too boring."

Ludwig grunted and turned to Arthur. "Will you want one also?"

"Say 'do ya want one too', Luddy." Gil sighed. "Considering how awesome your teacher is, you really ain't doing so well."

"Thanks Ludwig, I'd like that." Arthur said hastily, interrupting before Ludwig decided to cheerfully beat Gil to death.

Six bottles of rum later, Arthur had more important things to worry about.

"An' then wha' happ'n?" Gil slurred happily.

"And then the unicorn says to me, 'Arthur,' he says, 'You gotta -'"

Arthur was suddenly thwarted in his attempt at conversation by his stool spitefully choosing to tip him over. He slumped on the floor and glared at it. The stool glared back, looking entirely unrepentant. 'It was your own fault,' it seemed to say.

"What are you insinuating?" Arthur said to it coldly, enunciating as best he could. He was quite proud at his success - he had barely even stumbled over the last word, despite the fact that it was rather a long one.

The stool smirked at him, but before it could reply, Gil slid out of his own seat to collapse beside Arthur. "An' then?" He asked.

Arthur giggled. "What on Earth do you mean, 'and then'? You are so silly, Gil. Now, shh. This fine fellow was just trying to tell me something, were you not?" He smiled at the stool encouragingly.

"What are you doing, _mon cher?"_ An amused voice asked.

Arthur looked up, saw Bonnefoy, and pouted. "Bloody Frenchmen."

Bonnefoy hauled Arthur to his feet, and put an arm around his shoulders so that he didn't immediately keel over. "Bloody Frenchmen," Arthur repeated. But he didn't shove Bonnefoy away - it actually felt rather nice.

Gil smiled lazily and stumbled to his feet, saluting sloppily in response to an imagined command. "Aye, cap'n!" He swayed and fell heavily to the side. Luckily, Ludwig caught and steadied him before he damaged anything.

_"Excusez-moi, Ludwig. Je pense que Arthur est __en état d'ébriété. Je m'occupe de lui, tu peux assiste l'autre ivrogne?"*_ He gestured towards Gil.

_"Oui," _Ludwig said reluctantly.

"Stop bloody well speaking in French!" Arthur interrupted.

Francis just laughed._ "Merci, Ludwig_. Come with me, _mon cher."_

Too unsteady to argue back, Arthur just nodded and followed Bonnefoy back to his cabin.

* * *

><p>Francis looked down at Kirkland and smiled. He really was an amusing drunk - for one thing, there was the way he spoke with exaggerated clarity, enunciating each word precisely, as if to prove he was nothing if not sober. And as they'd staggered back to Francis' cabin, Kirkland had prattled on cheerfully, talking to inanimate objects, imaginary creatures, and occasionally even to Francis himself.<p>

Even when they arrived at Francis' cabin, Kirkland still hadn't put himself on guard. Pouting, Kirkland had insisted that Francis called him "Arthur, because '_mon cher'_ is poncey and Kirkland is formal." Francis had stifled a laugh and agreed.

At some point, Francis began to wonder exactly how unwary and naïve Arthur really was when inebriated. An idea flashed into his head, and Francis smiled slyly.

"Arthur, come here."

Arthur looked up in surprise, but stumbled towards him obediently, implicit trust in his green eyes.

When Arthur stopped, Francis softly pulled him closer. For a moment, he simply stared at Arthur, gazing at the delicate cheekbones touched with a light blush, at those tangled eyelashes that framed forest green eyes. Francis had never seen Arthur this close, and never with such an expression of trusting abandon. He wanted to savour this for as long as possible.

Then he slowly reached out and began to unfasten the buttons on Arthur's jacket.

Arthur looked puzzled, but didn't try to stop Francis as he finished taking off Arthur's jacket and his slender fingers reached for the top button of Arthur's shirt.

He hesitated.

Considering how drunk Arthur was, he probably wouldn't even remember what they had done together come morning. Francis could either take advantage of that, and do what he had wanted to ever since he'd first seen Arthur - to make him his.

But he knew that this wasn't what Arthur would have wanted. If not for the copious bottles of rum he had drunk, Arthur would be yelling and cursing and fighting Francis off as best he could.

_All the more reason to appreciate the fact that he isn't, _part of him said snidely.

He looked up at Arthur.

That expression of confusion and overwhelming trust was still present.

Francis felt ashamed. How could he have even thought of violating that trust?

"Bonnefoy?" Arthur asked uncertainly.

Francis tugged him into his arms, resting his head on top of Arthur's, who sighed and nuzzled into Bonnefoy's shoulder.

They stayed still for a while, and eventually Francis heard Arthur's breathing even out. He drew back carefully to see that Arthur was fast asleep.

Smiling fondly, Francis pressed a small kiss to his temple. "_Bon nuit, _Arthur."

Then he gently picked Arthur up and tucked him into his bed.

* * *

><p><em>*<em>Translations by Lemon Nightmare: _'Excusez-moi, Ludwig. Je pense que Arthur est __en état d'ébriété. Je m'occupe de lui, tu peux assiste l'autre ivrogne?' _- Excuse me, Ludwig. I think Arthur is drunk (literal: in a state of inebriation). I will take care of him, can you help the other drunkard?


	5. Chapter 5

When Arthur woke, the first thing he noticed was the pounding headache that beat with the rhythm of the waves against the ship's hull. The second thing he noticed drove the former completely out of mind.

There was someone in bed with him.

Not only that, but whoever it was was _too close_. Arthur looked up cautiously to see Bonnefoy, sleeping peacefully as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to be sharing his bed with a stranger.

Although for him, it probably wasn't. After all, it was true that Bonnefoy was quite good-looking - well, some people might think so, even if Arthur certainly didn't. He was probably quite popular.

Arthur felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of Bonnefoy with someone else, and it surprised him. He'd never really been the sort of person who would get jealous over such trivial things.

Blue eyes opened unexpectedly, and Bonnefoy's lips curled into a smile when he saw that Arthur was already awake.

Caught under that predatory gaze, Arthur suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that he was held firmly in Bonnefoy's arms, and that their legs were tangled in a way that meant he absolutely couldn't escape.

"Last night was fun, Arthur," Bonnefoy purred. "You aren't in pain, are you?"

Had Bonnefoy just called him Arthur? With a flash, Arthur remembered something from last night._ 'Arthur, come here.' _And Arthur had obeyed, and the last thing he could remember was Bonnefoy's graceful fingers unfastening…

"What happened?" He asked in horror, praying they hadn't done anything.

Bonnefoy smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Arthur growled. "You bastard."

Bonnefoy laughed. "Arthur, do you honestly think you'd have forgotten if we had gone all the way? I'd have made you feel so good, there's no way you would have blanked it out, _mon cher."_

Arthur was torn between relief and irritation, and eventually settled for the latter. "Of course you would, Bonnefoy."

"Call me Francis. Bonnefoy is so formal." Bonnefoy smirked, and another flashback smugly reminded Arthur that he'd told Bonnefoy not to call him Kirkland. Damn, he really had done a good job of embarrassing himself.

"You wish," Arthur said shortly, and made to leave.

* * *

><p>Bonnefoy had let him go surprisingly easily, and it wasn't until Arthur reached into his pocket that he discovered why.<p>

His watch was gone.

"You absolute fucking bastard!" Arthur yelled furiously, storming back into Bonnefoy's cabin.

"Hmmm? Are you missing something, _mon cher?"_ Francis asked mockingly.

"Fuck, Bonnefoy! Give it back!"

Bonnefoy ignored him and stood up languidly, an aura of smugness surrounding him as he stepped closer to Arthur. "I said, call me Francis."

Arthur felt his face burn, but that wasn't important anymore. "Francis," he ground out.

"What are the magic words, _mon cher?"_

Arthur held back a growl and forced out the words through gritted teeth. "Give it back, _please."_

Bonnefoy's smile widened and he leaned closer to Arthur. When he tried to move away, Arthur felt rough wood press into his back. Tension hovered taut in the air, and Bonnefoy murmured one word.

_"Non."_

"What? Why not!"

"It's my assurance. Do you remember when I said you would either be the ship's carpenter or my pet?"

Arthur felt himself go numb with horror, and nodded woodenly. He knew what came next.

"Now, if I want you to do something, I have bargaining power. I have heard that seawater can be damaging for watches?"

"You wouldn't."

"Are you sure? If you want to test that…"

Arthur was silent.

For a moment, there was stillness. Then Arthur felt a gentle touch on his chin, softly tilting his head towards Bonnefoy's. He caught his breath, and time stretched endlessly between them.

Then Bonnefoy's lips were on his, soft and warm and surprisingly gentle. Arthur instinctively flinched back slightly in surprise, screwing his eyes tight shut. He berated himself inwardly, knowing he'd never forgive himself if anything was to happen to that watch, and pressed forwards.

Bonnefoy's reaction was surprisingly decent. Rather than trying to force Arthur into doing anything further, Bonnefoy pulled back reluctantly slow, and looked at him immeasurably.

"You don't want this…" He said thoughtfully.

It took a lot of effort for Arthur to stop himself from rolling his eyes and replying rudely.

"I'll wait. After all, you're mine now, and there's all the time in the world."

Arthur glared at him. "It's not like I'm going to fall in love with you and beg you to take me! Or don't tell me, you think that's what will happen?"

Bonnefoy grinned. "Something like that."

Arthur's pride flared up. "Then get ready for a long wait. That'll never happen!"

"Then you have nothing to worry about," Bonnefoy shrugged.

That stupid, self-confident expression never left his face.

* * *

><p>Arthur stomped out onto the deck, simmering in fury. Gil was crouched in the sun, carefully disassembling a barrel. And right now, Arthur needed nothing more than a distraction. "What are you doing?" He asked.<p>

"Oh, hey Artie. Luddy's pissed at me for gettin' drunk last night, so he's makin' me do Feli's job and smash up this barrel."*

"Why?"

"Make more space. The Ashron's just a sloop, she aint got much room, specially when we got craploads of these things floatin' around." Gil sat back on his heels and contemplated his work. He grinned. "It was worth it though. Man, you're a funny drunk."

Arthur snorted. "You should see yourself. At least I could stand up."

Gil flushed and changed the subject abruptly. "Jeez, this heat's really unawesome." He started pulling off his shirt.

Arthur caught his breath in horror. The pale skin of Gil's back was criss-crossed by a network of scars. Some were old and faded to silvery lines, but some were more recent and stood out as newly healed wounds. "Gil, what the hell happened?"

"Huh? Oh. A couple months back, I got double-crossed and ended up prisoner of some army psycho." Gil spoke casually, but his eyes had darkened with fear or anger or both. "He was fuckin' creepy, he had this sweet face and Russian accent and stuff, but then he'd just snap suddenly."

The bottom of Arthur's stomach dropped. "Ivan…"

"Yeah, that's him. Ivan Braginski." He shuddered. "You heard of him?"

"Unfortunately." Arthur took a deep breath. Gil had told him his story, he deserved the same courtesy, no matter how hard it was to say. "He killed my brother."

* * *

><p>Lemon Nightmare: The internet told me that apparently one of the important people on a ship was the cooper, who basically put together and deconstructed barrels. If you wanna see more, look at the link below (sans spaces, of course):<p>

http:/ latinamericanhistory. about. com/ od/ Pirates/p/Positions-And-Duties-On-Board-A-Pirate-Ship. htm


	6. Chapter 6

In the end, Arthur told Gil everything.

It was probably crazy, baring his soul like that to a guy he'd only just met, especially one as flippant as Gil. But at the same time, Arthur had seen the way the Prussian was with his supposed brother, Ludwig. There was definitely a lot of affection between them, despite their differences. Arthur felt that Gil would understand the things he'd done for his brother.

By the end, Gil seemed more impressed than horrified. For a moment Arthur wondered whether trusting him had been a good idea after all.

Then Gil clapped him on the back and said, "I know ya can't get over it easy, but when ya do, remember that blood ain't the only thing that makes family. I'm not sayin' replace your bro, but it helps to know someone's there for ya."

Arthur smiled. Judging from the blush that stood out clear on Gil's pale cheekbones, that hadn't been easy to say as Gil was trying to make out. "Thanks, Gil."

Before Gil could reply, Ludwig stomped out and clipped him round the head.

"Ow, Luddy! Jeez, what was that for?"

"Stop bothering Arthur. He's a guest on this ship, he doesn't deserve to have _you_ inflicted on him. There's several people who are _not_ pleased with you at the moment," He said sternly. "Right now, Roderich wants to talk to you."

Gil paled. "Oh shit. This is about Lizbet, isn't it? Wait! Before ya do anythin' rash, remember I'm your brother, yeah? Luddy?"

The rest of his pleas faded as Ludwig dragged the struggling Prussian below deck.

Arthur shook his head, grinning fondly. He turned to lean against the ship's rails, staring out at the open sea. He hadn't thought about the - about what had happened, for almost a year now, blocking it out as effectively as he could. Now that he was thinking about it he realised that the memories were as potent and painful as ever.

He reached for his watch, needing to feel its weight. He cursed fluently when he remembered that bastard Bonnefoy had taken it. The memory of his brother's grin drifted intangibly through his mind.

That was it. He would get his watch back - he had to. Tonight, he would sneak into Bonnefoy's cabin and find his watch, and then he would do what he should have done days ago.

He was going to kill Francis Bonnefoy.

* * *

><p>Francis couldn't sleep.<p>

For the thousandth time, he drew out Arthur's pocket watch, holding it up to the shafting moonlight as if the silver rays would illuminate whatever it was he was missing.

Whichever way he looked at it, it was just a normal watch - maybe a little older and a little more worn than most, but there was nothing spectacular about it. It had been crafted in dull metal and a window in the back showed cogs that were much too old to be functional. The initials on the watch, A.K., were Arthur's, so there couldn't be some sentimental value to it.

So why was Arthur so het up about being without it? There was no other explanation for what he'd seen earlier. He'd come up on deck to see Arthur leaning over the side of the ship, and he'd watched the Englishman's hand come up to reach for the watch, only to drop in disappointment when he remembered where it was.

Guilt gnawed at his insides. Maybe he should just give the watch back and try acting decently towards Arthur.

No. He was a pirate. Acting decently was not his forte; guilt was an occupational hazard. Closing his hand over the watch, Francis turned over and tried twice as hard to fall asleep.

* * *

><p>The sky was unusually clear, and Arthur had no trouble seeing as he made his way into the captain's cabin. He held the dagger tightly. The gilt handle pressed its pattern into his palm. The blade was short but wickedly sharp. He took a shuddering breath and looked down at Bonnefoy.<p>

Suddenly an image of the only other person he'd killed flashed before his eyes. That person had had the same blond hair as Bonnefoy.

He shifted the dagger. Why should that matter? This was a _pirate_. A man who had stolen from him, _imprisoned_ him. He shouldn't be hesitating because of something that had happened so long ago.

But the feeling of knowing that a life had been snuffed out because of what he had done was something Arthur never wanted to feel again. He lowered the dagger. Nothing, not even freedom, was worth that. He couldn't kill Francis.

Shaking, Arthur buried the dagger in the wooden table. His head spun as he stumbled out onto the deck, gulping in the midnight air.

It wasn't until several hours later that he remembered about his watch.

* * *

><p>Francis tapped the rim of his spyglass thoughtfully, thinking about what his conversation with Antonio earlier.<p>

_"Maybe he hates you, maybe he doesn't. At least he feels something for you, right? And there's a fine line between love and hate. Like my little Romano, he always claims to hate me! But then he says something or does something and I know he really loves me a lot."_

_"Merci, Antoine. I just hope you're right."_

Francis sighed and raised the spyglass to his eye to scan the horizon.

All of a sudden, a red eye blinked at him from the other end of the telescope, and he nearly yelped in surprise to see Gil's scowling face in front of him.

"Hey, Bonfoy," he said angrily. "What you doing to Artie?"

Francis blinked. "What?"

"After me and Artie got drunk together, Luddy said ya looked after him. And then next morning I see Artie hurryin' out your cabin, pullin' on his jacket and scowlin' away. And now Luddy says that Artie was in your cabin last night as well? Are ya molestin' him or summat?"

"Not yet, sadly. But are you sure? He wasn't with me last night. What time did Ludwig see him?"

"Dunno, but it was late. Why?"

Francis frowned. He was still alive and Arthur's watch was safely in his pocket. So why had Arthur bothered sneaking into his room?

Maybe Arthur had taken something of his in retaliation. Muttering an apology to Gil, Francis hurried back to his cabin.

Nothing was missing; the only difference was that the knife he'd given Arthur to kill him with had been driven deep into Francis' previously unblemished mahogany desk. Grasping the hilt firmly Francis yanked it out, wincing at the gash left in the dark wood.

He turned the dagger over and frowned. So Arthur had been in his room last night. It must have been the perfect opportunity for him to kill Francis.

So why was the dagger embedded in a table rather than between his ribs?

* * *

><p>Arthur knew he looked like shit, but it didn't help his mood when an immaculately dressed Francis recoiled in horror at the sight of his tousled hair and dark circles.<p>

"What do you want," he said.

For a moment Francis almost looked guilty. Then his face returned to its usual unreadable mask. His hand, which had been toying with one of the weapons at his belt, moved to touch Arthur's forehead.

This time it was Arthur's turn to flinch back. The cold metal guard-rail pressed into his spine and he was reminded of that first day, when Francis had effortlessly pinned him to the side of the ship.

"You haven't got a temperature," Francis mused. "What's the matter? You seem different."

He grunted noncommittally. "Didn't get much sleep."

Francis sighed. Reaching into his coat he drew out the dagger. He held it out to Arthur.

Arthur looked at it, hands stubbornly in his pockets.

Francis sighed again. "Whether you take it or not, I'm not going to let you go."

"I know that. But this is my choice, and I'm choosing not to take it."

"Francis!" Someone was calling from the poop deck. They both turned and Arthur saw a figure waving urgently, backlit so that only a silhouette was visible.

Francis signalled that he was on his way before turning back to Arthur. The dagger was still in his hand; flicking open his coat, he shoved it back into his belt. _"Je suis desolé,"_ He said softly, blue eyes earnest.

Then he strode off across the deck, leaving Arthur to curse his lack of knowledge of the French language.

* * *

><p>AN - Okay, so that was the first continuation chapter :) Good? Bad? I'd love to hear from you either way~ Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave a review! :)


	7. Chapter 7

A/N - The incredibly sweet reviews that I found when I opened my email were amazing. Made my week, seriously! So massive thanks to reviewers, particularly Appledapple :3 Hope this lives up to expectations!

* * *

><p>Antonio met him on the poop deck, green eyes wide and worried. "Francis, there's a storm approaching, and fast. It looks like a strong one - the wind's building up already."<p>

Francis looked out at the horizon. In the distance, a black mass of clouds roiled threateningly. The high wind was blowing it steadily closer to them, and Francis could tell that the storm would hit in only a few short hours. They'd need to be ready when it struck.

"We can't run from that," Antonio said tersely.

"So we weather it, and hope for the best. We've come through worse, but the _Achéron_ will take a battering. Could you warn the crew? They know what to do."

"Sure, Francis."

The ship quickly flurried into action. Romano, the helmsman, steered so the _Achéron_ was facing into the already quickening wind. The cannons and anything else that wasn't secure was made fast, and the sails were taken down and stored below.*

Things were coming along quickly, and Francis nodded in satisfaction. When the storm arrived, they would be ready for it.

He caught sight of Arthur using complicated knots to tie down their precious water barrels. Francis smiled.

_"Bonjour, mon cher," _he said brightly.

Arthur spun round, scooting back quickly when he found himself scant inches from Francis. He scowled at him from a safe distance. Francis could almost see the flattened ears and lashing tail of a wary cat. "What?"

"I thought you would never help us, that you would go down with the ship rather than see us to safety."

Arthur turned away and began fiddling with the knots he'd finished tying. "You have my watch. Besides, there are some decent people on this ship, and I don't want to let them die."

Francis inched closer so that when Arthur turned to face him, there would be nowhere for him to go. "Or maybe I was right, and you have fallen in love with me."

Arthur whirled around, just as Francis had wanted him to. A dark blush dusked his cheeks as Arthur realised how close they were.

"What are you…?"

Francis smiled. "Testing a theory."

He bent down and kissed Arthur's collarbone once, softly, tongue flickering out to taste the mixture of salt and that flavour that was so indescribably _Arthur_. He looked up, and Arthur was glaring at him again - but this time his eyes held a more complicated emotion, and he hadn't pushed Francis away yet.

Encouraged, Francis went on, pressing a trail of kisses along and upwards. He bit down softly, and Arthur gasped but still hadn't forced him to stop. His lips ghosted over Arthur's jawline, closer and closer until finally only a breath-space parted their mouths. And there he stopped.

His whole being burned with longing, and Francis wanted nothing more than to kiss Arthur properly, unreservedly, rather than these phantom butterfly kisses. But Arthur, what did he want?

Those deep green eyes were filled with a mixture of defiance and desire - and something else, something that faltered indecipherably under the surface and sent a flicker of hope spiraling through Francis.

He sighed. Stepping back, he said, "Be careful when the storm comes."

He walked back to Antonio.

* * *

><p>Not long after, the storm hit.<p>

The breeze flurried into a gale, gnawing at the hull and making the wood hum and creak in complaint. Rain tore at the sky, lashing down to pound against the deck in a drumroll of noise. Lightning leapt down to kiss the horizon, pursued by the roll and rumble of the thunder.

Arthur stood and watched in awe. He'd been at sea for a while now, and this was hardly the first storm he'd experienced. Yet nothing he had ever seen could compare to this.

The pure unadulterated power of the wind and the waves was indescribable. Beautiful in its raw otherworldliness, perfect in its terrible majesty.

It was at that moment, as the rain needled his skin and the salt stung tears from his eyes, that Arthur realised he would never return to land.

The ship jerked suddenly, buffeted by a strong gust of wind. Caught by surprise, Arthur lost his footing on the wet deck and stumbled.

Warm arms caught him before he fell, and Arthur opened his mouth to thank whomever had helped him. Until a voice by his ear purred, "I told you to be careful, _mon cher."_

Arthur's face flamed. "I was!"

Bonnefoy raised an elegant eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. I just got a bit distracted."

"Is this your first storm at sea?"

"Yes," Arthur said, trying not to sound defensive as he straightened up and turned back to look out at the ocean.

"Ah." Bonnefoy stepped up beside Arthur, and for a moment there was silence between them. When he spoke next, it was uncharacteristically quiet; Arthur barely heard him over the storm. "It's beautiful, _non?"_

Arthur glanced at Bonnefoy. His eyes were darkened by the storm, but Arthur could see he was earnest. "I haven't seen anything like it."

Bonnefoy's hand slipped into his. "In case you fall again," he said. Taken aback, Arthur nodded.

Side by side, they watched the storm.

* * *

><p>The <em>Achéron<em> emerged from the storm relatively unscathed. However, it took several long hours of hard work to get things up and running, particularly the soaked-through sails which entirely refused to cooperate.

In terms of damage, they'd been extraordinarily lucky. But the gale had blown the ship miles off course, and the sky was covered by a stubborn layer of clouds that left no way to determine where they where. On top of that, the weather was utterly calm with hardly a breath of wind.

Suddenly, Francis heard the shout from the crow's nest that heralded an approaching ship. He let out a sigh of relief. Maybe they'd be able to learn their position. Squinting against the sun, he examined the ship.

She was a galleon, much larger than the _Achéron._ He snapped out his spyglass to look closer, and fear trailed ice down his spine. He knew that ship.

It belonged to the only pirate Francis feared. One of the most ruthless, most powerful pirates ever to have sailed the seven seas, legendary for his skill - and cruelty. The Russian captain, Ivan Braginski.

* * *

><p>* I have no idea what ships do to prepare for a storm. This sounded like a plan though. If anyone has any experience with boats and storms and knows what you're supposed to do, please tell? Thanks! :)<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Happy New Year, everyone! Hope you enjoy the next chapter. It's where things start getting awkward…

* * *

><p>Ivan paced the length of Francis' cabin, polished black boots striking the floor. "So we have a problem," he said. A soft accent lilted his words. "Our agreement was that neither one of us would disturb the other by encroaching on his territory. You are powerful, I am powerful. We would destroy each other in a fight."<p>

"The storm blew us off course. I didn't realise how far we drifted."

"It is forgiven, comrade." Francis looked up in surprise._ What…?_ Opposite him, Ivan smiled encouragingly. "My sister tells me you have someone for me?"

Francis frowned as if confused and Ivan's face darkened.

"One of my prisoners escaped. He was an insubordinate thief, and I had been teaching him a lesson when he broke out. The guards were useless, I had to have them… Replaced."

Francis suppressed a shiver. The look of cruel satisfaction in the Russian's eyes revealed the true meaning of replaced, and it wasn't something Francis wanted to dwell on. "Describe him?"

"He was a Prussian, albino."

Francis furrowed his brow as if trying to remember. Finally he shook his head. "Sorry. I haven't seen anyone like that."

Ivan's smile stretched thin with barely concealed menace. "Stop protecting him, Francis. Or I'll really make you sorry."

"Ivan -"

_"Hand him over."_

The door slammed, disrupting their conversation, and Arthur flew in, eyes blazing with anger.

There was a silence. Then Ivan smiled gently. "Hello, Arthur. How have you been?"

Arthur growled and sprung forwards faster than Francis had thought possible. There was a hissing flash and suddenly Arthur's knife was buried in Ivan's side.

Ivan's smile widened. He yanked out the dagger and grabbed Arthur's wrist in a tight grip. "That was rude, Arthur. All this time and not even a proper greeting? What happened to those aristocrat manners you used to have?"

Arthur's eyes flickered down to his wrist. "I wouldn't waste my time being polite to filthy scum such as yourself."

"Arthur!" Francis said sharply. He turned to the Russian. "Ivan, he is my property. I will discipline him myself."

Ivan laughed lightly and let go of Arthur. A welt was already swelling from the force of his grip.

He turned to Francis. "You're sure you don't know anything about the whereabouts of the thief?"

Francis nodded. "He sounds like he'd be hard to forget."

Ivan kissed his teeth. "That makes things more difficult. You remember the agreement we made, don't you?"

"I do."

"Just this once, I'll allow you safe passage."

"Thank you," Francis said, waiting for the catch.

"But in exchange, I want Arthur."

A muscle jumped in Francis' jaw. "Why?"

Ivan smiled. His violet eyes hardened. "He needs to learn his place."

"No."

Ivan lunged forwards and roughly jerked Arthur's face upwards. "See that expression; he defies you, Francis. Those are not the eyes of a man who has been broken. He is not afraid of you. You need to show him pain, show him fear."

"I shall. But when I break him, I want to have the pleasure of doing so myself," Francis replied, ignoring Arthur's furious glare. "Recently we robbed a Spanish ship carrying treasure from the New World. Would you let us leave freely if I gave you a quarter of it?"

"All or nothing," Ivan said.

"A third."

"Half."

"Done. I'll have it loaded onto your ship by nightfall."

Ivan nodded. He turned to go, before stopping and looking back. "Oh, Francis. I was wondering about Jeanne?"

Francis stiffened. How did Ivan know about Jeanne? He nodded warily.

"She was in the navy, wasn't she?"

"Army."

"Ah, that's right. We met her, didn't we, Arthur?"

Arthur's head flew up. He stared at Francis, guilt stark on his features. "She was…?"

"Mmm," Ivan smiled pleasantly. "She was a brave one, wasn't she? She went through nearly a week of torture before you shot her. Never gave us anything."

If Francis had been able to move, he would have shot Ivan where he stood.

_His Jeanne, brave, sweet, proud Jeanne, in the hands of this sadist?_

Ivan touched his hat in farewell. "A pleasure as always, Francis."

* * *

><p>Arthur dug his nails into his palms. He stared at the door, noted how it hung slightly loose in its frame, how the surface of the wood was slightly scratched. The knots in its grainy surface stared back at him.<p>

He tore his gaze away and forced back the tide of memories that threatened to drown him. Francis' eyes were shut and Arthur was relieved because he knew the expression they would hold. He could read it on every line of his face.

He licked his lips. "Francis?"

The pirate's eyes flew open. He stood fluidly. In one smooth motion he flicked open his coat and drew out a pistol, which he leveled at Arthur. He aimed straight at his heart.

The last time he'd seen a gun like that… _No._ Arthur's heart squeezed painfully. He'd spent so long carefully building barriers, forcing himself to forget. But now the walls were down and the memories were flooding back stronger than ever.

_Click._ The safety was off.

Francis' finger teased the trigger.

"Shoot." Arthur spoke through cracked lips. He heard his voice, but it wasn't his own. This was a half whisper, the merest rustle of dry leaves. He swallowed. "Shoot."

Francis closed his eyes. His lips worked soundlessly.

He pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit Arthur, but it didn't hurt. It felt like his arm had gone, as if it had never been there. He pressed a hand to it and felt the warmth of blood. His fingers were shaking as Arthur held up his hand in front of his eyes. Arthur stared, mesmerised.

The pistol in Francis' hand clattered to the ground. He stared helplessly at Arthur before burying his face in his hands. "Go."

Arthur went.

* * *

><p>Arthur's head spun. He couldn't think clearly and his arm had started to ache. Some strong whisky would help, wouldn't it? Clutching his arm Arthur headed for the galley.<p>

He couldn't have walked more than ten paces when darkness took him and he knew no more.

When he woke up he was in Francis' cabin. Salt-crusted ropes dug into his wrists, binding his hands behind his back. His shoulders ached and he couldn't feel his left arm. His right was on fire with pain.

The tip of a knife pressed suddenly against his throat, lifting his chin and forcing him to raise his head. He met Francis' blue eyes, and for the first time they were cold.

"Murderer."

* * *

><p>If you liked it, please do review :) And have a happy 2021! Plus a happy 2012 to all those readers who don't travel in time ;)<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N - So I updated for reals this time. Sorry about the accidental chapter 9 thingy to those of you who have this on story alert!

Sorry - this was a tad rushed in the writing, because I promised it'd be out by the end of today having forgotten about the fact that for once I have a life. (I was more surprised than anyone.) So it's a bit crap.

Anyway, enough excuses - on with the story!

* * *

><p>Francis couldn't do it.<p>

He'd tried to shoot Arthur. It wasn't as if Arthur would be the first Francis was to kill - not by a long way - but it wasn't the same. Francis killed when he needed to, killed protecting his friends. But Arthur was defenceless, and Arthur was telling him to pull the trigger. And Francis had, but the last second he'd twisted the gun away to shoot Arthur in the arm.

Jeanne's face haunted him, had haunted him in dreams ever since he'd found out what happened to her. He'd sworn to avenge her - it had been the whole reason he'd turned to piracy, for Chrissake - and now the man who'd killed her was at his mercy, and he couldn't even kill him.

Francis growled and paced across his cabin.

After what felt like an age, there was a knock on his door. _"Entrez," _he snapped.

Gil entered with Roderich. Arthur slumped between them and Francis felt his gut twist. "He was shot," Roderich said. "I've removed the bullet and cleaned the wound. He should be alright." He paused delicately. "Unless you don't want him to be."

Gil glowered, red eyes sparking flames of fury. "There is no 'unless', Roddy." He turned to Francis. "Why d'you shoot him?"

Francis ignored him. "Put him there," he said, indicating a chair.

Once they had done so, Francis ordered them to leave. Roderich inclined his head and turned for the door, but Gil stayed obstinately still. He stood in front of Arthur with his arms folded protectively.

"You can't hurt him, Bonfoy. You _can't."_

"If I wanted to kill him I would have done so already. _Leave us."_

Gil didn't budge. After a few seconds Roderich rolled his eyes and tugged Gil's arm gently. "Come on," he said; this time Gil obeyed.

The door closed behind them and Francis was left to his thoughts.

_Jeanne. Jeanne. Jeanne._

Memories of _her_ ran through his head. Her eyes, her smile, her laughter. The sound of her voice. The habit she had of flipping her hair when she was happy. The way she'd lift her chin and _stand back up,_ no matter how hard they pushed her down.

He bound Arthur's hands behind his back. He took out a knife and then Francis sat down opposite his most hated love, waiting for him to regain consciousness.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes before Arthur's eyes slowly blinked open. Francis raised the dagger and pressed it lightly against Arthur's throat. Tiny beads of blood sprung up against the bright silver, and then Arthur lifted his gaze to look directly at Francis. Faced him unflinchingly and openly as if ready to accept - _welcome_ - whatever pain Francis inflicted on him.

Francis hated him for it.

* * *

><p>"You murdered her."<p>

Arthur couldn't move. He could feel time slipping away, stretching and warping endlessly before his muscles finally unlocked and he could speak. "I did."

"You hate yourself for it," Francis said. "I can see it in your eyes, you hate yourself for it."

Arthur said nothing. Francis was right; there was no point in him interrupting.

"You hate yourself for it - and I don't give a shit that you do. Contrition can't bring her back, Arthur. Nothing can. Killing you won't, either, but right now it seems like a good idea."

The blade flashed suddenly. Then it was hovering over Arthur's heart, the point dipping and twirling with Francis' indecision in a macabre dance.

Suddenly several things happened in quick succession. Francis threw the knife down hard enough that it embedded itself into the wooden floor. Next he pulled back his fist and punched Arthur, so that he saw stars.

And then he yanked Arthur upwards with his free hand and crushed their mouths together in a bruising kiss. Arthur let out a hiss of pain and Francis took the opportunity to slip his tongue between Arthur's lips, plundering every corner of his mouth. Arthur tasted the iron tang of blood - he wasn't sure whether it was his own or Francis'. It snapped him back to his senses, and he jerked his head back.

They were still incredibly close. Francis' lips were kiss-swollen and he was panting slightly. _"Je te déteste," _he breathed. He lowered his head and bit Arthur's collarbone once, sharply. _"Je te déteste," _he repeated. Arthur felt a drop of warm water land on his bare skin, and he realised with a shock that Francis was crying.

* * *

><p>Neither of them moved for a while after that. Arthur had no idea how long it had been - <em>minutes? hours?<em> before Francis lifted his head and asked the last question he had been expecting.

"Tell me what happened."

Arthur's eyes flashed up. "You can't possibly -"

_"Tell me."_

They stared at each other, unblinking. For the first time in his life Arthur was the first to look away.

He gnawed at the corner of his lip. The story was as hard for him to tell as it was for Francis to hear, maybe even more so. "What do you know of Ivan?" He stalled.

"I know that he was in the army. I know that he is brutal and ruthless even to his own. I know that there are countless rumours about him - and that many of them are true. I know enough."

Arthur stared at the floor. He could still feel Francis' eyes on him, expectant, and presently he said mechanically, "I was in the army, too."

He was silent for a long while and Francis waited, knew not to push him.

When at last Arthur did find the words, it was difficult to stop them. Memories poured out unbidden, as if he was just a vessel, a reservoir of the words and the stories.

"When I was younger, I was a conscientious objector. War was something that I loathed, in the purest sense of the word. I didn't – don't – see the point. It's a waste of life."

The unspoken words hung heavy in the air._ If you felt that way why did you kill her?_

"But I had Al to think about. You don't need to know my whole messy family history but to cut a long story short, my little brother was important to me. And what was important to Al was being the hero. He'd always wanted to be a soldier, to fight for King and country. I followed him into the army because I thought it was the only way to protect him.

"We served under Ivan. Even then, he was the same as now. He'd just been demoted for killing a fellow officer. But when it came to – to torture, he was still the best, and they knew it. They brought her to our unit, and Ivan – God. I don't know what he did; we didn't rank high, we weren't supposed to even know she existed.

"The next time we saw Ivan was after about a week, and he was dragging her with him. We were all pretty shaken up. And then he says, 'Kirkland II, you're youngest. You get the right to kill her.' – and Al just froze. He didn't move. Eventually Ivan said that if Al didn't kill her, he'd be disobeying a direct order from a superior and he'd be shot.

"Al still didn't budge. In the end, I took out my sword and I killed her. And then – and then Ivan shot Al."

Once he'd finished Arthur just hunched over himself, huddling miserably into the chair. Arthur had never admitted any of that out loud before and some small part of him had expected to feel – different, afterwards. Not as far as catharsis, but at least relief. He didn't feel anything but hollow emptiness, as if he'd been pithed.

From the corner of his eye Arthur could see Francis' hand hover as if to touch him. Irrationally he flinched. Francis ripped his hand back as if he'd been burnt.

Eventually he said, "You didn't kill her, Arthur." His voice was low and soft but the words were emphatic, urgent.

Arthur said nothing.

Francis left.

* * *

><p>Francis' head spun with a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. He felt guilty, relieved, angry, confused, idiotic. Above it all was a whirling torrent of self-loathing.<p>

He'd believed Ivan rather than trusting Arthur, despite knowing both of them. He'd hurt Arthur when he should have _listened_.

That tiny flinch was at the forefront of his mind. It was to be expected, of course – Arthur may have been naïve but he'd known cruelty, knew what men could do – but even so, it was _Arthur_. The man who'd stood up to Ivan, of all people. The man who'd arrived on the _Achéron_ knowing only that his life was in Francis' hands and had fought back tooth and nail.

The man whom Francis had fallen in love with; the man who had, with one tiny flinch, terrified Francis more than anything Ivan could have said or done.

Because he knew what that flinch meant. It meant that Arthur was scared of him, and it meant that Francis had done exactly what Ivan had wanted.

He'd broken him.

* * *

><p>Awkward timez. God this needs concrit…<p>

Does anyone happen to know when the term 'conscientious objector' was first coined? Because I have no idea whether it is appropriate for the (admittedly vague and unspecified) era in which this story is set.

Also does the last part make sense? Or did people have to go back and reread to find out what the heck Francis means?

Finally, how many more chapters would be good? I can either wrap things up in I'd say four or five chapters or it can be a tid longer, not sure how much - 'twould depend on events that have not as yet transpired. Basically, how interested in this story are you?

(Hugs and FrUKky fluff to whoever answers the above questions? :3)

*insert shameless plea for reviews* Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

A/N - So I just remembered that this story exists - thanks to BrittanyTheGreat for pointing out the long wait since the last update! The reason I ask for reviews is not just for motivation, but also because I genuinely forget what I am writing unless I get a message in my inbox saying 'A new review blablabla.'

What I'm trying to say, in a long and convoluted manner, is sorry for the long wait. Hope the chapter doesn't disappoint!

* * *

><p>Francis had been avoiding Arthur for weeks.<p>

It wasn't the kind of glaringly obvious childish avoidance that was so often fleeting. It was the courtesy and manners that drew a line – hell, built a freaking _wall_ – in between him and Arthur: the kind of awful limbo that lasts indefinitely.

Arthur had thought it was because of Jeanne, but Francis had made it clear that it wasn't that at all, that he'd forgiven Arthur for it (which, to some extent, had enabled Arthur to begin to forgive himself). Which left him with absolutely nothing by way of reasons.

Since the incident, Gil had apparently taken on the role of mother hen – a role that he was almost disturbingly good at. He'd been on Arthur's side since the beginning, without knowing what the fight was about, and it had been Gil that nagged Arthur about everything from dressing his wound to brushing his teeth.

Recently, Gil seemed to have forgiven Francis for having shot Arthur, and the two of them were as close as ever. Arthur tried to ignore the pang of jealousy that twisted his gut whenever he saw the two of them together – not to mention the bitter taste of guilt when he recognised what he was feeling.

He didn't mind what Francis had done, any of it. He had been angry for a reason, and to be honest Arthur still didn't quite understand why Francis hadn't just shot him dead then and there.

What he did mind was this. The studied avoidance, the stilted tone when he had to address Arthur – _'Monsieur Kirkland'_, as he now was.

Part of him wanted to confront Francis. At least then he'd know what had happened. But at the same time, Arthur wasn't sure that he wanted to know the answer. He sighed.

When would things return to normal?

* * *

><p>Avoiding someone when you're on the same tiny ship in the middle of the ocean is no easy feat.<p>

As Francis discovered, it's even harder when you happen to be in love with that person and trying desperately to fight your heart and every urge telling you to just go for it.

As it turned out, it's impossible when you're surrounded by people like Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Once he'd forgiven Francis, Gil had returned to his usual self except a lot more meddling. He'd made it his mission to force Arthur and Francis back into friendship, mainly because "it's difficult splittin' time between both of ya, an' there ain't no point in splittin' when ya know ya wanna see him."

It had been almost a month since Gil had started scheming, and Francis had lasted impressively.

"Ya know Bonfoy, you're gonna hafta stop avoidin' him eventually." Gil said out of the blue.

Francis adjusted his train of thought to the non-sequitur and waited for Gil to go on.

"You ain't gonna avoid him forever, so what about stoppin' now?"

Francis shook his head. "I have to try. I'm not going to risk hurting him again."

Gil snorted. "He ain't made of glass. He can take it."

"Gil, I _shot_ him."

Gil looked at him guilelessly. "Your point?"

"I –"

"See that's where you're goin' wrong."

"But I –"

"Yeah, again. Bonfoy, ya shouldn't be thinkin' in 'I' if it's Arthur you're talkin' about. If you're thinkin' in 'I' you're just bein' selfish."

Francis was silent, and Gil went on. "You're bein' selfish, an' I'm stuck with both of you mopin' around. Fuck, Bonfoy, it's drivin' me _mad!_ So you're gonna take your French arse over there and fuckin' tell him you're a retard – an' that he is too, really, but not as much as you – and then the two of ya are gonna hug or cry or whatever the fuck ya want but ya sure as _fuck_ ain't gonna mope. Savvy?"

Francis shook his head. "If it's my selfishness, it's my selfishness. Either way I can't, Gil."

Muttering under his breath in German, Gil stalked off.

* * *

><p>Gil had never been very good at lying – part of the reason why he was pretty much permanently in trouble with various members of the crew.<p>

The flipside of this was that when Gil told Arthur that both he and Francis were idiots and proceeded to explain exactly why, Arthur believed him.

And that was the reason Arthur was standing outside Francis' cabin in the middle of the night, feeling rather foolish.

It was the third time Arthur had broken into Francis' cabin, and he was beginning to wonder why Francis still had such lax security. He opened the unlocked door in the way that meant it didn't complain and weaved across the floor, avoiding the boards that he knew would creak.

It wasn't until he was hovering over Francis that Arthur realised he had no idea what he was doing. He hadn't thought this through at all; what was he supposed to say? Francis would probably just presume he was trying to kill him again.

He was turning to leave when a noise stopped him.

In his sleep, Francis moaned. At his sides his hands clenched and unclenched, and his flaxen hair clung to a forehead damp with sweat.

_He's having a nightmare,_ Arthur realised. He couldn't leave Francis to suffer, so he reached over and poked him gingerly. He didn't wake.

He shook him, hard, and this time Francis struggled back into consciousness. When his blue eyes flickered open they were blurred with the ghosts of dreams.

He stared at Arthur, wide eyes made wider by thick lashes. Finally he said, "Is this a dream?"

Arthur stared back, deciding what to say.

"No," he said at last.

Francis laughed. "Liar," he said, and then he reached up and pulled Arthur down onto the bed with him. One arm curved round Arthur's waist to hold his hipbone in a gentle but firm grip.

Arthur stiffened in surprise. He debated whether or not to move, but just the thought of leaving the warmth of Francis' arms made him curl closer to the pirate.

Suddenly Arthur felt exhausted, and he yawned widely.

Francis laughed lightly; Arthur felt the huff of breath and the purring vibration and made up his mind.

_"Bon nuit."_

"'Night," he whispered.

Francis' breathing quickly evened out, and Arthur too was wavering on the edge of sleep when the words slipped out.

It wasn't something he would have said when he was awake. It wasn't something he would have even realised when he was awake – it was one of those things that becomes clear in the hinterland between dreams and reality, one of those things that seems impossible at any other time but that once realised cannot be denied.

One of those things.

"I love you."

Arthur fell asleep.

* * *

><p>When Francis woke he was warm and rested. He'd slept the night through for the first time in a while, and the nightmares that plagued him had quickly stopped.<p>

He opened his eyes slowly, unwillingly, and it was then that he noticed Arthur, pressing warm and close to his side. His breathing was still deep and steady in sleep. Francis realised then why he'd slept so well. When he dreamt of Arthur last night it hadn't been a dream – it had been _real_.

Suddenly panicking, Francis inched out of the bed but Arthur's hand fastened round his wrist like a vice. He turned to Arthur; something in his expression made the question die on his lips. Arthur gently drew him down to sit beside him and held his gaze wordlessly.

"You were having a nightmare," he said quietly.

"Oh."

Arthur rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I woke you up and I think you thought you were still asleep."

"Oh." Francis repeated.

Arthur glared at him furiously. "You need to stop this, Francis!" He snapped. "Maybe he was lying, I don't know, but Gil told me that you're blaming yourself for everything, and I don't know if he was right but if he is, don't! Just –" Arthur sighed. "Just, tell me. Was Gil right?"

"Kirkland -"

Arthur rolled his eyes and lunged forwards. He threw a solid punch at Francis' jaw, sparking a starburst of pain.

"Is that better?" Arthur snapped. "Because if you want I can shoot you too. Francis, I don't give a _shit_ what you did, especially considering what _I_ have done!"

"But you've done nothing!"

"Neither have you!" Arthur shot back.

Francis glanced away.

Arthur growled and grabbed Francis, yanking him close enough that their noses nearly touched. He paused for a few moments, as if gathering his nerve, and then brushed their lips together in a kiss, fleeting as the brush of a butterfly's wings.

When he pulled back his face was on fire. "Now that we're equal, will you let it go?" he muttered.

Francis laughed, and as he did so he felt something uncurl inside him, a knot of guilt that he hadn't even realised was there. Arthur smiled and loosened his grip. Softly, he brushed the pads of his fingers over the pulse at Francis' wrist.

Francis caught his breath. Arthur's fingers traced over Francis' hand, along to the tips of his fingers; lightly, as if he was expecting Francis to startle and pull away. Francis didn't move. For a moment there was a tension between them, a stillness as if of waiting – and then Arthur let go, and it was as if nothing had happened.

"I'm sorry."

Arthur grinned wryly. "What for?"

And that was the end of it.

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><p>This is the part where I ask for reviews, and you (hopefully) oblige? :3<p>

(Concrit is my best friend, btw.)


	11. Chapter 11

A/N - First of all, sorry for the slow updates! Thanks to DefineSugar and daCanadianmonstah for reminding me.

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><p>They dropped anchor in a port called Sibarita, one of the few places on land where pirates went unpunished. The town's few officials were notoriously corrupt; a monthly bribe ensured that they turned a blind eye to the more illicit activities that went on.<p>

Roderich disapproved. When Francis informed him of their destination, his lips thinned and he launched into a rant about how he despised the 'venal reprobates' that had allowed Sibarita to become such a 'den of iniquity'. Francis had long since stopped bothering to remind him of the fact that said den of iniquity had helped them more times than he could count, and instead pointed out the fact that they weren't going to stay long – they were only there for a routine repair of the ship, prompted by the storm, and to stop off for some much needed supplies.

To be honest, Francis had been dreading visiting Sibarita again for a number of reasons, ranging from the inconsequential - a plethora of jilted ex-lovers - to the significant - a certain Englishman who wasn't willingly part of the crew.

It got to the point where Antonio, who for such a brilliant tactician was extraordinarily dense, noticed there was something bugging him. _"Dios mío,_ Francis, I've never seen you reluctant to put in at Sibarita before. What's up?"

"Arthur," Francis sighed.

Antonio blinked. "What about him?"

Apparently this was one of the times when his quartermaster's dense side was coming into play. "He can't go anywhere when we're on the _Achéron_, the only options are staying on the ship or visiting Davy Jones. But at Sibarita? He'll leave as soon as we drop anchor."

"So lock him in the ship," Antonio shrugged. "Besides, I thought you had his watch?"

Francis' heart leaped. What with everything else that had happened, he'd forgotten about the watch. But Antonio was right; Francis still couldn't be sure, but he didn't think Arthur would leave without it. It was precious to him, for whatever reason…

_The initials._

A.K.

Francis had presumed they stood for Arthur Kirkland, but what if he'd been wrong?

When Arthur had told him what happened to Jeanne, he'd mentioned having a younger brother – what had he called him? Something like… Al.

Al Kirkland – A.K.

_"Amigo?_ Francis, what's wrong?"

_What had he done?_

* * *

><p>From his lofty position in the crow's nest, Gil had been yelling regular updates as to exactly how far they were from land ever since it had been first sighted.<p>

Eventually he'd scampered down and was now practically hanging off the edge of the ship, eager to disembark. Beside him, Arthur was looking towards the shoreline and wondering what was so special about this place.

"So where exactly are we headed?" Arthur asked curiously.

Gil snapped out of his reverie and sighed happily. "Sibarita…" He said dreamily.

Arthur waited, but Gil didn't seem to be planning on saying anything else. He prodded him.

"Whores," Gil blurted. "Er, whores, pirates, thieves, murderers – Sibarita's where the scum of the world goes. Great place."

Arthur raised an eyebrow in question, and Gil snorted. "They look even more like caterpillars when ya do that."

Arthur thumped him.

"Sorry. I mean, it's great 'cause if you don't get stabbed or mugged, Sibarita is the only place where people like us can relax on land without havin' to worry about gettin' clapped in irons and hanged."

"Technically, I'm a carpenter." Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah well don't go bangin' on about it in Sibarita, mate. Be dead in seconds. Anyone asks, you're with Bonfoy. He's badass enough that people won't give ya any trouble."

From elsewhere on the ship came the steady rattle of chains and then a splash as the _Achéron_ dropped anchor. Gil whooped.

Behind them, there was a cough. Arthur and Gil turned around to see Francis.

"I'll be off," Gil said with a grin, winking at Arthur. "People to do, things to see."

_"Monsieur_ Kirkland, may I talk to you in private for a moment?"

"Um, sure," Arthur said hesitantly. The fact that Francis was back to calling him by his surname couldn't be a good sign, but even so he followed Francis back to his quarters.

It wasn't until Francis had escorted him inside that Arthur remembered the fact that he was technically a prisoner, and that prisoners don't get to sightsee.

Francis was rifling around for something in his desk – a key, Arthur presumed, but then Francis turned back to him and pressed something round and cool into the palm of Arthur's hand, closing his fingers over it.

_"Je suis desolé,"_ he said. He brushed past Arthur back on deck, leaving the door open behind him.

Arthur frowned in confusion and looked down at what he held in his hand.

It was his watch.

Arthur felt a rush of guilt. He hadn't thought about it for a while now, but it was nice to feel its weight in his hand again.

Turning the stem as he had done so many times, Arthur was surprised to see that Francis had taken unexpectedly good care of it. There were no new scratches on it, and the metal looked if anything slightly less tarnished than he remembered. Now that he'd wound it up, its slender hands kept the same soothing tick, and on the back its faded inscription still spelled the initials in neat print. Arthur traced the letters absently.

And then Arthur realised what this meant.

Francis had returned him the watch. He had even left the door open. It was a clear message; Arthur had overstayed his welcome. This was Francis' way of politely telling him to _get out_.

But no, maybe he was just reading into it too much. After all, Francis wasn't the sort of person who'd tell him to leave like this, in such a subtle and impersonal way.

And then suddenly, memories flashed through Arthur's mind, bringing with them a sense of horrible clarity.

_"Sorry, mon cher, but you are much too interesting to set free."_

_…_

_"I'll wait. After all, you're mine now, and there's all the time in the world."_

_"It's not like I'm going to fall in love with you and beg you to take me! Or don't tell me, you think that's what will happen?"_

…

_"I love you."_

Francis had planned on _keeping_ him – Arthur's lip curled distastefully at the word, but there was no other way of putting it – until he was no longer interesting. Arthur had told Francis that he loved him. At the time he'd thought Francis was asleep, but what if he'd heard? Then he would know that he'd won, that Arthur had fallen in love just as Francis had said he would. No longer a challenge, Arthur was obsolete.

Just taking up valuable space.

Arthur clenched his fists. He'd been such an _idiot!_ Francis – Bonnefoy – was a _pirate_. What sort of cretin believes in someone like that? From the beginning, Bonnefoy had been untrustworthy, and Arthur should have seen that. Would have seen it, if he hadn't been so busy falling in love and…

He growled, angry with himself. Francis had done nothing but disrupt his life and cause him pain. In the months since he'd been forcibly ripped away from his old life, he'd been threatened and hit and _shot_.

Jamming his watch into his coat, Arthur stalked off the _Achéron_ without a backwards glance.

* * *

><p>Sibarita prided itself on being a city without law, without a hierarchy. But someone had to be in charge, had to make sure that the city ran smoothly and that the bureaucrats were kept happy.<p>

That someone was João Lisboa-Carriedo, Portuguese entrepreneur and manipulator extraordinaire.

And according to the skinny runner who'd scurried up to Francis with the message as soon as he'd disembarked, he wanted to talk to Francis.

Whatever this was, it was important. To do with their run-in with Braginski, perhaps? The Russian was probably looking for a renegotiation of territory. Francis couldn't imagine that Ivan was satisfied with taking a half share of gold, no matter how much it was worth. Either way, Francis didn't mind – he still had Gil and Arthur.

Except of course he didn't – not anymore. Now that Arthur was free to go, it was just wishful thinking to believe he would stay on the _Achéron_. Gil would probably go with him; the two of them had been thick as thieves recently.

Francis threaded through the familiar cobblestoned streets, dark in their narrowness. He ignored the advances and cajoling calls as he passed, sidestepping an inert figure that was either very drunk or very dead, and wound his way to the unassuming, run down building that was the criminal centre of the city.

He was let in as soon as he gave his name and guided to a smoking room on the second floor.

_"Monsieur_ Carriedo?"

The man that greeted him was far from the sallow criminal Francis had expected. João Lisboa-Carriedo had the same dark hair and sun-kissed complexion as Antonio, and welcomed him with a firm handshake and an easy grin. Apparently not one for formalities, Carriedo cut straight to the chase. "Please, call me João. You are a friend of Arthur's?"

"That's one way of putting it," Francis hedged. He had no idea how Arthur felt about him, and Francis' own feelings were far more than just friendship. "You know him?"

_"Sim._ When we were children, we were part of the same gang of pickpockets. Him and me were thick as thieves." João grinned at his own joke. "I was pressganged into the navy and I hadn't heard of him since – until a few days ago." His face suddenly turned serious. "I have no idea how he got mixed up with Braginski, but I need to warn you. Ivan's after Arthur, and he'll do anything to get his hands on him. While you're in Sibarita, don't let Arthur off alone."

"Braginski's ship isn't at port – I made sure before we dropped anchor." Francis clenched his fists to prevent his hands from shaking. _Arthur was in danger?_

"That doesn't mean he isn't here. Francis, it's my business to know everything there is to know about this city and I can say one thing for sure – Ivan is here, in Sibarita. I don't know where, but I do know that you have to keep Arthur safe." João could obviously read something on Francis' expression, because he hesitated. "He is safe, isn't he?"

Francis closed his eyes and tried not to think of what would happen if Braginski were to get his hands on Arthur. "If you will excuse me?" He said, and it took all his effort to keep his voice steady.

"Of course." João said, and Francis turned to leave.

"Oh, and Francis?" João smiled beatifically. "If anything happens to Arthur, I will personally hunt you down. As for what I will do next – well, I don't think you need me to spell it out."

Francis smiled raggedly. It was nice that João cared about Arthur so much, but Francis knew that if something happened to Arthur, whatever physical pain João inflicted on him would seem inconsequential in comparison.

* * *

><p>Arthur staggered out of the bar, head already thumping from the noxious cocktails he'd downed in quick succession. The night air was blessedly cool.<p>

He was stopped suddenly by an iron grip on his arm.

It didn't faze Arthur. He laughed. "Sorry, mate, but I'm skint as they come. I'd 'ppreciate it if you let go."

"Oh, but I am not after your _money,_ Mr Kirkland." Arthur heard the fluting scrape of a knife, and suddenly a blade pressed cold into his throat.

The voice was soft, and accented Russian. Braginski shifted closer and placed his mouth beside the shell of Arthur's ear to whisper, gently as a lover's promise –

"I want to see you _suffer…"_

* * *

><p>AN - Yep, I am a cruel person. If you want to rail at me in person, please feel free to do so in a review!

Alternatively, if you liked the chapter, please tell me, I really do love getting reviews! They are my personal brand of crack (but with considerably less health risks).

Apropos of João, he comes in as Artie's childhood _amigo_ because the alliance between England and Portugal is the oldest in the world still in force. Now ain't that adorable?

Is Francis too much of a drama queen in this chap? I mean, he's definitely one for hyperbole, but I dunno if it was just a bit too woah. Concrit? :3

Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

A/N - I am actually rather worried about myself as a person - it's very twisted and I somehow get the terrible feeling I'd be quite good at torture. Well, at thinking it up anyway.

Happy reading, I guess.

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><p>He had to admit, the cat o' nine tails was inventive, but Arthur was no stranger to pain.<p>

After the first thirty lashes, Arthur had cocked his head at Braginski and said, "Is that all you've got?"

Braginski's violet eyes had darkened, and for a moment Arthur had felt that seeing his frustration made it worth the pain.

Thirty blows later, Arthur only just managed to wrench up the corners of his mouth, forcing himself to effect something like a smile. Judging from Braginski's expression of cruel satisfaction, he wasn't entirely successful.

The next time, Arthur lost count. His thoughts were starting to blur, like ink bleeding into canvas. It wasn't long before he lost consciousness, and the blankness of it was a blessing.

Of course, he was jolted back to reality at once. A kick, and a sharp pain blossomed in his side.

There was a grunt of irritation, and then Braginski's soft voice lilted, "What are you keeping in your coat, Arthur? I've scuffed my boot."

One of Braginski's lackeys hauled Arthur up roughly, and the Russian reached into his coat and drew out the watch.

A cobwebbing of cracks marred its glass face.

Arthur's knees gave out. He fell to the deck, suddenly feeling hollow.

_His last link to Al…_

Braginski turned the watch over and glanced down at Arthur. He tried to look deadpan, but something must have shown because the corner of Braginski's mouth twisted into a smile, and he pocketed the watch.

Then he shoved his boot in front of Arthur. "Lick it clean."

Arthur stared. Distantly he felt a faint flicker of surprise. Before now, he had never realised it was possible to hate someone this much. And wasn't it odd, but the thought was somehow comforting - at least he knew he could still _feel_.

Braginski feigned disappointment. "You aren't going to?"

For an answer, Arthur dragged himself forward and spat on the boot. "Go… to hell." He rasped.

Braginski smiled. "Fyodr!" One of his lackeys snapped to attention. "The Cat."

It was unrelenting. Arthur no longer tried counting the blows, no longer tried holding back his yells of pain. He'd screamed his throat raw before they stopped, kept on screaming even though there was no sound but the hollow wheeze of air.

Eventually Braginski held up his hand, and the beating stopped. "That's enough, I think; we don't want to kill him too quickly, _da?_ Take him below deck." Braginski crouched down beside Arthur, put a gentle hand beneath his chin to tilt his face up.

His eyes crinkled in a smile. "Say your farewells to the sky, Arthur; who knows when you'll see it again?"

_If you'll see it again._

Arthur didn't move his gaze away from Braginski. In the end, the Russian forced him to look.

The sky looked like it had been scraped too thin. Here and there were shredded clouds, dawdling across the stretched expanse.

Arthur thought of Francis, of his eyes as blue as the sky above wasn't.

He could have wept.

* * *

><p>Arthur had no idea how much time had passed since he'd been dragged down here, whether it was days, weeks, months, or years.<p>

He was in the bowels of the ship; there were no windows, and the hallway outside was light only when Arthur's food and water was brought down by the faint light of a guttering candle. The air was fetid, and it somehow felt as if the once-living wood of the ship had soaked in the pain and the fear of the prisoners who'd dwelt in this room before him.

Yet somehow, he was almost growing accustomed to it.

The sea whispered a lullaby against the sides of the boat, and Arthur wondered whether the crew of the _Achéron_ missed him.

At once, the image of Francis sprung to mind: Arthur forced it back. He refused to think about the Captain.

Ludwig would probably miss having someone slightly more serious to talk to, and no question he'd miss Arthur keeping Gil off his hands. Feli would miss him because he was _Feli,_ and formed emotional attachments faster than an overenthusiastic puppy, language barrier notwithstanding. Roderich would miss Arthur because he was 'the only person on board this thing who understands _cultural refinement'_.

_Francis…_

Arthur shook himself. Lovino would maybe miss having someone to argue with, who wasn't terrified of his temper or too in love with him to notice. He didn't really know Antoine, or Antonio, or whatever his name was, but somehow Arthur missed him anyway.

Gil would miss him, he knew - and suddenly an image sprang to mind, of a back laced with scars. _"Some army psycho… He was fuckin' creepy."_

Gil had come through this - more than that, Gil had _escaped_. If Gil could do it, so could Arthur.

A thought formed, fragile as a bubble. He didn't dare contemplate it; it was so indistinct and barely there.

At the back of his mind, Arthur Kirkland had hope.

* * *

><p>For the first time, the door opened fully. For the first time, there was <em>light<em>.

He was so used to darkness that it nearly blinded Arthur's eyes. Stars and colours whirled in front of his vision, and he blinked hard to shake away his dizziness and focus on the shape silhouetted in the doorway.

For a moment he thought he was dreaming, because what he could see was _impossible_.

Al.

He was paler than he had been before, and he'd lost the rounded edges of youth. Now he was all sharp lines and angles. But it didn't matter; he was living, breathing, _solid_. Arthur reached out to touch him, willing this not to be some cruel delusion.

His hand was slapped away.

The air flew out of him. "Al?"

Arthur's brother looked at him, light haloing his soft hair, and his baby blue eyes were cold. "So you didn't lie," he said dispassionately, looking at Arthur but not addressing him.

Arthur suddenly noticed the hand resting on Alfred's shoulder, and he felt sick.

_"Nyet." _Braginski lilted.

Legs weak, Arthur stepped back into the darkness of his cell.

Braginski sighed. "Well, I have to say, this is far from the touching family reunion I was expecting."

Alfred laughed. "He hasn't been my brother since he left me to die."

He turned and just like that, he left. Without addressing a single word to Arthur. Before the light was gone, Arthur saw Braginski's hand on the small of Alfred's back, steering him gently with a lover's touch.

The sea licked at the sides of the boat, and Arthur wondered whether this was what it felt like to be dead.

* * *

><p>There was another interminable wait, and Arthur's mind constantly circled back to Francis and Alfred. The double betrayal was scarcely believable. How could it be fair that two of Arthur's most important people stabbed him in the back? What kind of god would let that happen?<p>

He vaguely toyed with the idea of giving up. It would be all too easy to just feed to the rats the food they tossed him or pour the grimy water away. His death would probably displease Braginski, the dissatisfaction of knowing that he'd lost a plaything.

But Arthur kept going. He kept going because of Gil, because of Ludwig and Roderich and Feli and Romano and everyone he knew, even those fucking Dutch cowards from the _Mary Rose_.

Because god_ damn_ if he was going to let anyone beat him.

Against the odds, Arthur was getting stronger, more determined – and then there was the key.

He was tearing into the crust of bread thrown in by his jailers and suddenly, his teeth cracked against something hard.

When he held it heavy in his palm, hands shaking, it was as if he could see the sky again.

It must have been from Al, there was no one else who knew where he was - no one else who didn't want to see him beaten and broken. Which meant that Al must have been acting when they'd met - and _damn,_ but he'd got good at it - and maybe he'd been cold to ensure that Braginski would be less likely to suspect him when Arthur escaped.

He waited for what he guessed to be about a half hour. Then, fingers trembling, Arthur fitted the key into the lock.

It clicked.

The door swung open, and the creak of its hinges was beautiful. Arthur peered out, and the dingy passageway was empty. A steady light came from a small oil lamp, still half full. _Must have been left by one of the guards,_ Arthur thought.

It crossed his mind that perhaps this was too easy. The key was one thing, but to have no guards and even a _light_ provided?

Maybe he was just being paranoid.

Arthur picked up the lamp and threaded his way through the maze of passages, ears pricked for the sound of footsteps. But the ship seemed to be deserted.

Finally he stood on deck, and for a moment he just gulped in the salty air and revelled in the caress of the breeze. The stars smiled down at him, and didn't the moon look lovely? Everything was okay.

Somewhere behind him there was a laugh. Polished black boots struck the deck.

"I'm impressed, Arthur. I truly didn't expect you to be so naïve!"

Arthur turned to face Braginski.

"Did you not think it was slightly too fortunate? I didn't even think you'd fall for the key." Braginski's eyes sparkled with amusement.

"I thought…"

"Ah, of course!" Braginski's smile stretched, lips peeling back. "You thought it was our little Al come to the rescue, playing the hero." He tossed back his head and laughed in savage joy. He stopped suddenly, snapping forward to look straight at Arthur, a tiny smile playing at his lips. "It could never be so easy."

They closed the door on him again, but not before another beating. By the end of it, Arthur's ribs felt cracked, and he was pretty sure his hand was broken. By now the endorphins were beginning to subside, and it felt like his whole body was on fire with pain.

Arthur had kept fighting his way back up, and he'd been beaten down again and again and again.

Maybe it was time to stop struggling.

* * *

><p>AN - Fyodr is the Russian name that in English becomes Theodore. Just in case you ever needed to know.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N - At last, the long-awaited chapter is here. Arthur's rescue, part 1. Touch wood it won't be _too_ dire.

I have to warn you, this chapter is pretty… Bad. I actually hated writing this chapter and it's a bit jerkier than usual because of it. So yeah, it's a bit shit.

Concerning RusAme, there were mixed feelings about the pairing, with some people keen on it and others not so much. So I've decided to leave things open to interpretation on that front. (There's no Russia-America interaction here, though.)

* * *

><p>Since the key Arthur's imprisonment had settled into a kind of cycle, a routine that balanced attritional monotony, humiliation, and pain with a finesse that detachedly Arthur almost admired. Braginski had truly turned torture into an art form.<p>

There was the rattle of the lock and then Braginski crouched in front of where Arthur sat, slumped against the wall._ "привет,_ Arthur." He smiled. "How are you feeling today?"

"I've felt better," Arthur croaked.

"And you'll feel worse," Braginski promised, stroking Arthur's cheek with a thumb. He straightened up. "Vlad, Grigory, help him stand. Bring him to the usual place."

Rough hands grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. Arthur was taken to a cramped room with a single guttering lamp; Braginski's iron pipe waited, leaning against the far wall. It fit well in Braginski's hand.

Braginski raised the pipe with a sweet smile. "Brace yourself, Arthur…"

By now, Arthur didn't even bother.

* * *

><p>Braginski's ship was docked at one of the tiny islands that were scattered across the ocean like the stars of so many constellations. It had been nigh impossible to find. Braginski was unpredictable even for a pirate.<p>

By the time they arrived, Francis was terrified it was too late already. He wanted to attack at once, but Antonio and Gil dissuaded him.

"We don't have a strategy, we don't know what exactly we're up against – we don't even know how many of them there are!"

_"N'importe, Antoine._ I can't leave him to that sadist! Strategy can go to hell, he's been alone far too long already."

"Tonio's right, Bonfoy. We need to get Artie out of there. But this guy…" Gil shuddered. "It won't be easy, and it's not something we can rush."

Antonio nodded, relieved to have an ally. "Exactly. It won't help Arthur if you run in and let yourself get killed."

"But –" Francis started.

"At least wait until nightfall. A few more hours can't hurt," Antonio reasoned.

Gil nodded in agreement. "Meantime I'm gonna try an' scout the place out." He rushed off, and Antonio turned to Francis.

_"Tu as eu raison,"_ Francis said wearily. He passed a hand over his face._"Je ne comprends pas comment tu peux blairer cet émotion, c'est trop doloreux."_

Antonio sighed. _"Quelquefois, je suis d'accord. Mais cela en vaut la peine."*_

As he waited for nightfall, all Francis could do was hope Antonio was right.

* * *

><p>When it was over, Braginski looked down at Arthur with a half-moon smile.<p>

"Polish my boots, Kirkland."

Arthur tried to speak, failed, coughed, tried again. "Yes, sir."

One of Braginski's thugs snickered. Arthur crawled forward and jerked his sleeve across the toe of the boot.

Braginski tutted. Shifting, he ground his heel into Arthur's still-healing hand; he gasped in pain. "Not with your sleeve, Kirkland. You've been living in that shithole, you'll just make it dirtier. Use your tongue."

"Yes, sir." Another laugh.

When Arthur had finished, Braginski kicked him back across the floor. One of the thugs yanked him to his feet and pulled their faces close together. "I've got something else you can use that pretty mouth on," he leered. The other men laughed.

_"Nyet!"_ Braginski barked. There was silence. "That one is mine. None of you are to touch him!"

He put his arm around Arthur's shoulders and pulled him to the door. He paused in the doorframe. "At least, none of you are to touch him _for now."_

Dimly Arthur registered a flicker of some emotion; he forced it back before it could take hold. Everything was easier now.

Braginski led him back to his cell and lowered him gently to a sitting position. Before he left, he turned Arthur's face towards him and looked into his eyes, examining his expression carefully.

Seemingly content with what he saw, Braginski nodded once and left.

* * *

><p>They boarded the ship easily enough, as there were surprisingly few guards; clearly Braginski wanted only the loyallest of the loyal to know where he went to lie low. Francis' crew easily overpowered them – though Braginski himself was nowhere to be seen.<p>

Gil led the way through the maze-like structure of the ship. "I don't forget a place easy, 'specially not a one like this."

When they reached the lower rooms, they stopped. "You take the keys for that corridor, I'll check down there. Yell if you find him, yeah?"

Francis nodded and took the proffered bunch of keys.

After several empty rooms, Francis stood before an inconspicuous oak door. He fitted the key and the door swung open.

Slumped against the wall was Arthur.

Francis' heart wrenched at the state of him. Arthur had lost weight, bones sharply defined in his frail form. His face was tattooed with blue bruises and encrusted dirt; a streak of blood traced his cheekbone. One hand was bound tightly with rags and he cradled it against his chest. But it was his expression that terrified Francis.

Because when Arthur raised his emerald-green eyes to see Francis, they didn't even flicker with recognition. He stared at Francis with dull impassivity, and then his gaze slid back to the floor.

"Arthur?" Francis said tentatively. His mind was racing, but he couldn't move. _What had Ivan done to him?_

Somewhere in the ship, a door clicked shut, stirring Francis into action. He crossed the tiny room and knelt down in front of Arthur.

"Arthur, _mon cher,_ we have to go now. Can you stand?"

Arthur glanced at him, disbelief flickering briefly through his eyes before that same blank expression returned.

Another door opened and there was the soft _clack_ of polished black boots. Arthur bent his head to the sound, eyes widening fractionally.

"Arthur," Francis whispered urgently, touching Arthur's shoulder to get his attention.

Arthur flinched away, pressing back into the wall.

Suddenly the footprints stopped, and there was a soft laugh from the doorway. "You see, comrade? I told you, to break a person you need to show them pain."

Francis clenched his teeth. "What did you do to him," he ground out.

Ivan ignored him. He reached out as if to touch Arthur; Francis raised his gun and he stepped back. "Look at his expression now, Francis." He smiled proudly. "I've done what you couldn't; I've broken him."

In one smooth motion, Francis levelled his gun and clicked off the safety.

* * *

><p>Gil slammed what felt like the hundredth door and sped back along the corridor, frustrated. In the labyrinthine passages of Braginski's ship, it could take forever to find Arthur. He stopped for a moment, trying to think.<p>

That's when he heard it; the murmur of voices, somewhere nearby.

Straight away he hurried off in the direction of the noise. A few twists, a couple of turns, and Gil skidded to a halt in front of an open door. Standing in the doorway, tall and imposing as Gil remembered (how could he ever forget?) stood Ivan Braginski.

"…what you couldn't; I've broken him."

Gil tried to catch a glimpse of Arthur, stomach lurching hollowly. Could Braginski have done it? Arthur was strong, but…

No; he couldn't think like that. He had to believe in Arthur. _I won't lose another friend._

Gil was snapped out of his thoughts by the click of a gun being taken off safety and it was like his legs moved of their own accord. Before he knew what was happening, he had darted round and stood in front of Braginski. Protecting his torturer.

Francis frowned. "Move out of the way, Gil."

Gil opened his mouth to agree, tried to stir himself into movement. What happened instead was nothing – nothing but the word, "No."

"Move out of the way, or I'll shoot you both."

And, "You're bluffing," Gil said. He tried to sound matter-of-fact, but his knees were shaking and several of his organs were looping in fear.

Francis lowered the gun. Gil exhaled in silent relief.

He looked at Braginski, and then back at Gil. "Why?"

It was at that moment that Gil realised why he'd protected Braginski. He smiled slightly, straightened up. Suddenly he was no longer trembling.

"Because I've been in the exact same position as Arthur, and I want _nothing_ more than revenge."

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

_Tu as eu raison_ - You were right

_Je ne comprends pas comment tu peux blairer cet émotion, c'est trop doloreux - _I don't understand how you can stand this emotion, it's too painful

_Quelquefois, je suis d'accord. Mais cela en vaut la peine.__ - _Sometimes, I agree. But it's worth the pain.

*insert plea for reviews here* :)


	14. Chapter 14

A/N - Artie's rescue, part the second. Sorry it's been so long - hopefully it'll be worth the wait?

Oh, and to any American readers - happy independence day!

* * *

><p>Francis had never seen Gil like this, so focussed and sure of himself. Gil had always had the attention span of a drunk gnat, constantly flitting from one idea to the next.<p>

"Take off your coat," Gil ordered. Francis' finger still hovered over the trigger, and slowly Braginski obeyed. Movements clipped and precise, Gil stepped forwards and removed Braginski's weapons from his belt, tossing them behind him to Francis. Then he did the same with his own weapons.

"What are you doing?"

Gil didn't take his eyes off Braginski. "We're both unarmed. We'll fight on equal grounds, an' when I take ya down you'll know that it wasn't 'cause I had the advantage; it's 'cause I'm better than you." He turned to Arthur. "He tortured me, too, Artie. But he can't defeat you unless ya let him - an' I for one am not gonna let him."

Something flickered in Arthur's eyes; Francis barely saw it before it was extinguished. _It's my fault,_ he realised. _I should never have let him go. This is all my fault._

"And Bonfoy?"

Francis glanced up at Gil.

"No matter what, don't ya _dare_ get involved. This is my fight, and I ain't gonna share the victory."

Francis nodded sharply. He knelt and put his arm around Arthur's shoulders, murmuring quiet encouragement. He helped Arthur to his feet and pretended not to notice how _frail_ he felt. Part of him wanted to hold Arthur tight, to shield him from everything; another stronger part was afraid that he'd break Arthur in two.

There was the sharp _crack_ of a punch landing, and Francis' attention snapped back to the fight, guilty that he'd been so distracted as to forget that Gil was in danger. Fortunately, the Prussian seemed to be holding his own pretty well. Braginski was much stronger, powerful muscles visible even through his shirt, but Gil was wiry and fast. Where Braginski's cheek was already blossoming into an ugly bruise, Gil seemed as yet untouched.

He'd spoken too soon. Francis watched as Braginski feinted left and Gil fell for it. He dodged straight into Braginski's low kick, realising his mistake too late.

He was limping visibly now, and Francis knew he couldn't watch Gil get himself killed. His hand went to his belt, ready to intervene, but Gil caught his eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly. _No._

Of course, he hadn't fallen for the feint - Gil was faking it, trying to get Braginski overconfident, trying to lead him into a trap. Still limping, Gil backed himself into a corner. Braginski's smile was cold and cruel as he pulled back his fist and…

Bracing himself against the wall, Gil kicked out with both feet and struck Braginski in the stomach. The taller man staggered back, winded, and Gil immediately followed up with a quick volley of punches. Braginski was swaying now, and Francis let himself smile. There was no way Braginski could win now.

And then Braginski reached into his boot and pulled out a Bowie knife.

He laughed. "Did you really think I wouldn't have another knife on me? Really, Beilschmidt. How could you be so naïve?"

Panicking, Francis scrabbled for his pistol; too slow. He watched in horror as Braginski brought down the knife, sharp and fast.

Then there was the rasp of metal on metal as Gil brought out his own knife and blocked Braginski's swing.

It was Gil's turn to laugh. "Did you really think I'd trust you, Braginski?"

Braginski stared at him in shock, and Gil took his chance. He flicked his wrist and the knife spun out of Braginski's grasp; Gil caught it with his other hand and pressed the blade to Braginski's throat.

"I win."

* * *

><p>Arthur hurt all over.<p>

His head was spinning and there were black spots hovering over his vision. But that didn't particularly worry him; what _did_ worry him, however, was the fact that he was having yet another hallucination - one that was much more vivid than he'd ever had before.

Arthur was fantasising that Francis was there, standing by his side and cradling him as gently as if he were porcelain. Gil was here, too, and imaginary Gil was very different from the Gil that Arthur knew - _used to_ know. Imaginary Gil was a lot more focussed and a lot more formidable. Imaginary Gil was not, Arthur noted, an enemy you wanted to have.

"I win," imaginary Gil said.

Imaginary Braginski stood before him, head bowed in defeat. "Are you going to kill me, Beilschmidt?" He asked quietly. It didn't sound as if he particularly cared either way.

Gil grinned savagely. "Oh, no - I'm gonna do much worse."

Braginski's head snapped up and he laughed. "Torture? Oh, how sweet. I taught you everything in that area - did you pay attention well?"

This time it was Gil's turn to laugh. "I ain't gonna _torture_ ya, Braginski." He paused. "Well, I ain't gonna torture ya physically. For one thing, knowin' you, ya wouldn't give a tiny rat's arse. An' anyways, torturin' is transient. Ain't got the time to torture you forever. Eventually you'd just run off an' build up your troops again."

"Then what are you going to do?" Said Francis in surprise, and oh, Arthur wasn't expecting a figment of his imagination to be so painfully _accurate_. That voice sounded exactly how he remembered, and Arthur was entirely unprepared for the painful twist that drove home the fact that _he still loved Francis_.

It was just so unfair.

* * *

><p>"Then what are you going to do?" Francis asked. Beside him, Arthur flinched, and Francis held on to him slightly more firmly.<p>

"Absolutely nothin'," Gil said proudly.

Oh. _Oh. _That was actually rather brilliant.

"Thanks," Gil preened, and Francis abruptly realised he must have said that aloud.

If Braginski were tortured or held captive, his men would rally round and he'd be lauded for his villainous heroism. But if Braginski's men saw their captain come out of a fight, unhurt but for a fine scratch at his throat from the press of a knife, they would presume he'd begged for his life like a coward, sold out his acquaintances in exchange for mercy. They'd scatter faster than rats fleeing a sinking ship, and Braginski would be left with nothing.

Francis shifted slightly to better support Arthur. "Let's go. Can you walk, Arthur?"

There was no reply.

"Come on, _mon cher,_ what happened to that fighting spirit? The Arthur I know would never give up. Stand up, and let's get you out of here."

"Ya know Artie, he'll have to carry ya like a girl if ya don't get goin'," Gil supplied helpfully.

For a moment Arthur's usual glare returned, with less force than usual but still unmistakably there, and then he started walking stiffly, leaning heavily on Francis.

Gil grinned and prodded Braginski in the back with his knife. "Get goin', Braginski."

* * *

><p>It took some time for them to make their way back to the deck, because Braginski was of course stubbornly uncooperative, refusing to lead them out of the underbelly of the ship. Francis didn't care, because Arthur was warm and light at his side. His thoughts kept returning to the image of Arthur scowling at him and Gil, and wasn't it stupid that Francis was giddy with happiness from a <em>glare?<em>

Once they arrived on deck, Antonio rushed up to meet them, grin wider than the crescent moon._ "Hola, amigos! _Arthur, it's so good to see you again! I hope you're feeling okay? We've subdued Braginski's thugs, so you're safe now," he chattered.

Francis had barely opened his mouth to respond when suddenly there was a sickening crack from behind them. He whirled around, automatically reaching for his gun, and blinked in confusion.

Standing on the stairs silhouetted against the sky was a girl, with a black bow in her mousy blond hair and a thick metal pipe grasped in a white-knuckle hold. Judging from her stance she'd just struck with it, and from her expression of fury it was clear that she'd missed her target.

In front of her was a sandy haired boy with his back to Francis, standing between the girl and Arthur.

Antonio recovered first - Francis had barely grasped that the two of them were there before when the Spaniard levelled his pistol and shot the iron pipe close to the girl's hand, wrenching it out of her grasp. It clattered to the deck and then three things happened in swift succession.

The girl let out an enraged yell and lunged towards them, shoving the sandy haired boy out of the way and causing him to stagger into Gil. In trying to catch the boy Gil let go of the knife he'd been holding against Braginski's back. Whirling around, Braginski grabbed the knife and slid it carefully up under his own ribs.

He fell noiselessly to the deck, dead.

* * *

><p>Arthur's mind couldn't seem to comprehend what was happening. His thoughts were just circling tentatively about the possibility that it was over, that maybe things were looking up.<p>

Because that was Al, wasn't it? Arthur had only seen the briefest flash of his face, but he would know his brother anywhere. Couldn't forget the way Al stood, confident but somehow slightly uncertain, or the way his blond hair stuck out in unruly tufts at the back - he was constantly tugging at it, trying to get it to lie flat but only succeeding in making it worse.

Al stumbled into Gil, and it was like Arthur was watching actors playing out a scene before his eyes as Braginski fell to the deck.

Al looked up at Arthur. His face was wan, and the bruising around his eye was stark against the paleness of his skin. He was cradling his arm to his chest, and Arthur suddenly realised that the crack he'd heard must have been the sound of the girl breaking Al's arm with Braginski's pipe.

"Hey, Artie," Al said, grinning suddenly. It was the same expression as he remembered from when Al was younger, Arthur noted; at least there was one thing about his brother that hadn't changed.

Arthur swallowed, mouth dry. "Al?"

"The one and only," Al said proudly, and if that grin got any wider it'd split his face in two.

"You're Arthur's brother?" Francis asked. "What happened? How did you survive?"

"He told you what happened?" Al said. "Well, after Braginski shot me -" Arthur flinched at this point - "I was pretty surprised to be alive, really. Still have a wicked scar right here," he said proudly, tapping his breastbone. "I was just lucky. The bullet hit my sternum, fucked it up pretty bad, but Braginski knows some talented healers. You have to, in his business. It was pretty touch and go for a while, but I pulled through in the end. Don't worry, Artie, you can't get rid of me that easy!"

"I remember you!" Gil said abruptly. "You were there at the same time as me. Braginski was obsessed with ya, man."

Al shivered. "You get used to it. And I wasn't alone by the end - there's this guy Kiku, he's the one who saved my life after the, um, bullet thing. Have you guys seen him? He's about yea high, dark hair and eyes, very quiet."

"I'll go find him," Antonio offered.

"Thanks." Al turned back to Arthur. "What I said before… You know I didn't mean it, right?" He said gingerly.

Arthur winced, shoving back the memory of what Al had said.

Al barrelled on obliviously. "Braginski's the master of torture. If he knew I still loved you, he would've destroyed you utterly. What I said before, I mean, you know, when I said that you hadn't been my brother since you left me to die - I didn't _mean_ it, you know?"

The image of Al's cold stare flashed up in Arthur's mind. The way he'd looked at Arthur had been _awful_.

Arthur glanced down at Braginski's body, sightless eyes staring at the sky and mouth still twisted in that familiar smirk. He looked around at Al, at Francis, at the whole crew of the _Achéron_ that had gathered to see what had happened, and then back to Braginski.

This was all too good to be true.

* * *

><p>AN - I actually enjoyed writing the fight scene waaaay too much; beating up Braginski was very satisfying. Other than that, the chapter pretty much wrote itself - I did NOT mean for Braginski to end up with a knife between his rib I'm really gonna miss him as a character! (To ThexDarkenedXLight - hope that clears things up apropos of Al?)

Anyway, I won't bang on about it. Now I shall repeat the usual spiel about wanting reviews; and remember, folks - for every review you write, a puppy is born :D

Thanks for reading! Hope it was better than the last chapter.


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